


Our Two Souls

by Nina36



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, M/M, Post His Last Vow, Post Season 3, WIP (but I'm writing. I will finish it!)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But we, by a love so much refined<br/>That our selves know not what it is,<br/>Inter-assured of the mind,<br/>Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: written for fun, not profit. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s note: This is my first foray into Sherlock fandom. To be honest, writing Sherlock Holmes kind of terrified me, for a lot of reasons. Unfortunately I had this idea which wouldn’t leave me alone, I had to write it down…hence this fan-fiction. It is an AU, post season 3. For the sake of the story I altered Sherlock’s year of birth from 1980 to 1976  
> Weland, who in my mind is like Tom Hiddleston, is older than Sherlock. Yes, I’m aware of the fact that Tom is younger than Benedict. Call it dramatic license.  
> Not betaed or brit picked, all mistakes are my own. I do sincerely apologise for them.  
> Quotes from Sherlock’s episodes are taken from here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/

**Prologue**

_But we, by a love so much refined_

_That our selves know not what it is,_

_Inter-assured of the mind,_

_Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss._

_\- John Donne_

 

For a moment, just one moment, John Watson let go. He didn't care, not about Mycroft, not about Mary, not about rules, labels, _dos_ and _don’ts_ ; none of it had mattered when Sherlock had gotten off that private airplane. He hadn’t even cared about Jim bloody Moriarty.

Sherlock had come back.

He had let go, crossed the distance between them and had hugged him. His best friend, his savior, his _everything_. Admitting to himself that single, crystal clear truth had made him breathe easier than he had done in a very long time, perhaps since the day he had seen Sherlock falling, his blood matting his hair, his eyes open and unseeing.

When Sherlock hesitantly, at first, hugged him back, exhaling a soft breath, John Watson felt happy. He had felt home;  that earthquake that had spun the world on its axis – or perhaps it had just put it back to its rightful place – only lasted a few seconds, a few crazy heartbeats…and when they both pulled back, locking gazes for a moment, John didn't honestly known how he was supposed to go back to Mary, to pretend that Sherlock wasn’t his everything.

Sherlock avoided his gaze, though; not overtly – no, but the message came across loud and clear: _no. Not now. Let it go._ It became especially clear, painfully so, when the man turned, addressed Mycroft with just a tilt of his head and left the tarmac with him, without uttering a sound, without acknowledging what had just happened.

He watched him go, his heart aching, his throat dry, oblivious for a moment of Mary’s presence, of her hand searching his, lacing her fingers to his. What have I done? He thought, not letting go of Mary’s hand, his body moving, his mind, heart and soul reeling.

_What have I done?_   He kept wondering. He had let him go, again.

The first time…it had been Sherlock’s doing, he had fallen…but John had been the one staying back, trying to exist in a world without him, with grief as his only companion, and it had been a faithful one: ever present in every breath, in every thought, in hundreds of sleepless nights, until Mary… …until she had appeared into his life, out of the blue, the cute nurse who always brought him tea in the morning, who smiled and reminded him to eat, who had wormed her way into his life.

She had been there for him, though. She had been the only thing stopping him from killing himself, from taking his gun and blowing his brains out. She had spent sleepless nights with him, when closing his eyes terrified him, without asking questions; her fingers entwined to his, as his heart hammered in his chest and he replayed Sherlock’s phone call over and over in his mind, trying to understand – because his words hadn’t made sense, they had been lies and he had refused to believe that he would kill himself over Moriarty’s mind game.

Except that he had, or so he had believed.

Mary had been there, for him, driving him to the graveyard every week, giving him space to grieve alone. Sweet, loyal, beautiful Mary…except that it had been a trick all along, hadn’t it? And she was holding his hand now, as if that same hand hadn’t pulled the trigger that had almost killed Sherlock. She was looking at him, with concern in her eyes, and John just – didn’t _care_.

How many times could he risk losing Sherlock, could he watch him go? How many times could he be lucky and have him back? Impossibly demanding, arrogant, brilliant, amazing, selfless, heroic, cold-hearted, forgiving, _his…his…his_?

_What have I done?_   He didn’t even realize he had stopped walking, oblivious of the bristling wind, of his stinging eyes, of the warmth of Mary’s hand in his.

“Go.” She said. He shook his head, feeling for a moment too tight in his own skin, his heart in his throat, his mind lost in a tangent that he was unable, unwilling to stop, to block.

“Mary…” He trailed. It wasn’t even her real name, he was holding hands with someone he didn’t know, the woman who had almost killed Sherlock three times, twice because of a gunshot and once because of her past and he had to force himself not to let go of her hand, not to recoil.

If she noticed, she was very good at ignoring it, she gave a little squeeze to his hand and said, “Go to him, John.”

_How fucking gracious of you!_ He thought, but didn’t say a word. He nodded at Mary and let her drive, feeling the woman’s eyes on him the whole time. And he didn’t care, didn’t care about bloody Mary Morsten, Jim Moriarty, Charles Augustus Magnussen…he only wanted to go home.

And really, there was only one home for him: not Baker Street where he was going; it was Sherlock….he was home.

 

 

* * *

 

_Our two souls therefore, which are one,_

_Though I must go, endure not yet_

_A breach, but an expansion._

_Like gold to airy thinness beat._

_\- John Donne_

If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend that the last three years of his life hadn’t happened.

221B Baker Street meant…chaos, dust, all kind of smells in the air and underneath them Sherlock’s.

The first few days after… _after_ , John had found himself in tears, some of them unshed, other times too tired to fight them, at the oddest moments because of smells…the detergent of his clothes, his shave foam, his ridiculously pricey shampoo and stuck to his clothes, like the blue dressing gown, there had still been traces of Sherlock’s own musk, his essence…

No one warned you about these things. As a medical doctor he knew death, as a soldier he had been even more acquainted to it… He had skipped that part of the grief process when his parents had died, though; he had been abroad, he had skipped what happened after – the day-to-day things that only drove home the stark reality of a loved one’s death.

He had lived it all…in the first few days…and it had crippled him. Waking up in a silent flat had almost done in him, smelling Sherlock…craving his skin, not in a sexual way – God, no, he barely had had the strength to breathe, let alone indulging in any sexual fantasy over his dead (not really, but he hadn’t known, hadn’t suspected, had been too swallowed up by the silence and the emptiness to make sense of what had happened) flatmate. – just…craving to touch his skin, to see him, to hear his voice…to have him back.

No wonder he had fled from Baker Street as soon as he could, leaving it all behind, like a bloody mausoleum of heartbreak and stupid geniuses who killed themselves, who said good-bye with tears in their voices, whose blood had been the only color he had been able to see for months, after.

It took John blinking a few times, that day, to return to the present, to a flat where Sherlock’s presence was everywhere: in sound, smell, sight, touch. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had cheated death, again, only to be sent to die in the arse-end of God knew where, alone. Mycroft was indeed a rubbish big brother.

Although… He shook his head, focusing on the figure sitting on the chair.

Sherlock hadn’t acknowledged his presence, he was still wearing his coat, scarf and gloves. He was looking at …the wall, presumably, without blinking. He didn’t see his suitcase as he took some steps into the room. Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him.

“He sent you on a suicide mission, didn’t he?” He said. And under other circumstances he would have perhaps tried to be smooth, to be more diplomatic…truth was…he was still too raw; one thing was knowing you were in love with your – male – best friend and practicing denial for years, so much that it became second nature, another thing altogether was being overwhelmed by those feelings, in a matter of seconds, without being able to do anything but being swept away by them.

Sherlock looked at him, finally. It was weird, he hadn’t realized how quickly he had gotten used to the man who had come back from his two years mission; that man had been more open…sometimes heartbreakingly so. The man sitting on that chair was… _different_.

John shook his head, had Sherlock really hugged him back or had he imagined it? Was he going crazy? Because it felt like it. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t come back at all, maybe he was imagining it all and he would wake up with a hole in his soul and a Sherlock-less flat, full of mementos of what they …

_Focus, you git!_ He ordered to himself, putting a halt to that train of thoughts.

Sherlock was still looking at him, a carefully blank look on his face, his hands neatly folded on his lap. He didn’t deny his words, though. He didn’t correct his assumption. John took another step and sat on his chair, in front of him. Silence…and John marveled for a second at how different silences could be.

“Christ, Sherlock…” he said after a moment, “I’m sorry!”

His words had come out of his mouth before he could stop. Seriously…what the hell was the matter with him? The dam had broken and he couldn’t stop anything, not his thoughts, not his recollections, not his words and, most of all, not his bloody feelings!

“I’m not.” Sherlock said. His voice, the rich baritone that had enthralled him since their very first meeting, sounded hollow, almost mechanic. Last time he had heard and seen Sherlock in a similar frame of mind he had ended up on St. Bart’s rooftop…and God, he would burn in hell before he let it happen again!

Truth was they hadn’t really talked after Sherlock had killed Magnussen...

_For you. He did it for you. So much for a machine, isn’t it, John?_ He clenched his jaws. Sherlock had disappeared after what had happened, taken in custody by Mycroft and, he suspected, secret services.

There hadn’t been time to talk, to ask questions…to throttle him for killing – no, not killing…Sherlock had executed him – Magnussen in front of witnesses.

“Never thought I would be grateful to Moriarty for anything.” John said under his breath.

That caused a reaction in Sherlock; the man shot a look at him and said, “This isn’t funny, John!”

John wanted to retort that he didn’t care, not in that moment, that he had been granted yet another miracle and that he didn’t want to let it go to waste. Not that time.

“I suppose not…” He said, instead. “What are you…what are you doing here?”  He continued. He hadn’t expected to find Sherlock home, his had been just a lucky attempt; he had thought he would be with Mycroft, planning the course of action against Moriarty – if it was indeed him – , he hadn’t expected to find Sherlock practicing his Sphynge impression in the sitting room.

Sherlock frowned, “Need I remind you that this is my flat? What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head and got up, moving quickly, his coat swirling around him, as he said, “Do close the door on your way out, John. Give my _love_ to Mary!”

That was it. That was _bloody_ it!

“You will not pull this trick on me, this time!” He called after Sherlock, following him.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, then strode toward his bedroom and John followed.“I fell for it, you know? And I spent the following two years regretting it, I spent two years thinking…”

He stopped talking and shook his head. He was outside Sherlock’s bedroom, the detective hadn’t closed the door, and John could see him, at the center of the room, his back to him, attentive. He was listening…and by God, he would keep doing so!

“I spent two years thinking that it was my fault. Not Moriarty’s, not your brother’s, not yours…mine, Sherlock!” John said, because if Sherlock was listening it was only fair that he should talk.

Sherlock didn’t move, so John took a step and entered the man’s bedroom. He wanted to reach out and force him to look at him, he wanted to look into his eyes – for some reason he didn’t think he had ever needed something more. Sherlock didn't turn, not even when John took another step, shortening the distance between them.

They were close, now. And if...if they were other people, it would be easy to reach out and touch him. If he hadn't spent the better part of the last five years forbidding himself to skim beneath the surface of what the man in front of him really meant to him...

And it was everything. He meant _everything_ to him.  Sherlock was home, safety, risk and blood pumping through his veins, impromptu violin performances at 4 in the morning, warm silences and frustration and he couldn't bear to think of spending another moment without him, without him knowing.

If Sherlock was another man... But it was them. It couldn't have been any different, so he took another step, his hands closed in fists against his sides and spoke in a low voice, "I'm not going, Sherlock. Not this time..."

"Why are you here, John?" Sherlock said...and God, he sounded so tired...he didn't think he'd ever heard him like that. "I don't have much time."

"I thought I had lost you...again." John said.

Sherlock chuckled, but its watery quality threatened another ripple effect in John's heart. He didn't move, didn't speak, taking in the rigid set of Sherlock's shoulders. The silence was there, thick and heavy with five years of them...but John could breathe and exist in it, in the silence he shared with Sherlock.

"You should go back to Mary, John." Sherlock said. John shook his head no. Since when was Sherlock Holmes the voice of morality anyway?

"I know you killed Magnussen for her..." John started but stopped, his words dying in his throat, when Sherlock turned, his eyes impossibly bright, keeping him there, locking him in place.

"Don't be daft!" He spat, he was pale and how had he missed how much the last three years had taken its toll on him? How could he discover new things about that impossible man every single time he looked at him? "It was the only logical thing to do." He continued. But it wasn’t what he had meant to say, it sounded weak – an excuse.

"Right," John said, taking another step, the distance between them growing shorter and shorter, "Killing an unarmed man in front of dozen of witnesses was the only logical outcome."

Sherlock didn't reply, didn't even move. "He was a..."

"Parasite. A bastard. I did notice that, thank you!" John said and stopped, for a moment he was again at Appledore, watching Sherlock literally walk through the fire to save him.

_But look how you care about John Watson_

_Your damsel in distress_...

God...what had he done?

John could see that Sherlock was making a point of not moving, so he did...he took another step, crowding his space - bugger it to hell, it was _his_ space, had been so...forever - , Sherlock looked at him, there was uncertainty in his eyes, but he didn't step back.

"John..." Sherlock said...and had he really believed that he couldn't _feel?_ His name on Sherlock's lips had come out as a hoarse whisper, almost pleading and John Watson had heard each and every implicit question in his voice, each self-doubt.

_Don't move any further if you're not sure, John._

_Do you want this as much as I do?_

_Do you?_

Sherlock was still looking at him, questions, doubts and hope dancing in his eyes.

"I can't..." John's voice broke and he had to swallow, “I won't lose you again."

He looked at him, searching his eyes and blindly grabbing the lapels of his coat with his hands. He had imagined, fantasized about being that close to Sherlock, a breath away from kissing, so close that all his senses were filled with him. It had happened, of course. It had been source of embarrassment and of almost painful climaxes. He had wondered, after St. Bart's, but it had been too painful. Not that it had stopped his subconscious from conjuring up images, scenarios.

Yet nothing had really prepared him for the feeling of Sherlock's lips on his – and he knew he would never really remember as long as he lived who had initiated the kiss – he wasn't prepared, he couldn't even fathom the softness of the other man's lips against his, the shivers that ran up and down his body as they breathed each other's air, the feeling of _this is right, this is everything...he is everything to me_ that filled him whole, humming in his blood as he parted his lips for Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was kissing him, cradling his face in his hands, tasting of coffee, mint and home, he was kissing the fear and love away with his lips, (yes, love, it was love and he had danced around it like a blind git, they both had), and he was trembling, they both were. It was messy because Sherlock was taller than him and John was still grabbing him, holding onto his coat's lapels and didn't want to let go, but he had to...he had to when the other man's tongue sought entrance, licking his lower lip and John's hands flew to Sherlock's hair, to the nape of his neck as he granted him access and really, no fantasy, no dream, nothing could have prepared him...

Sherlock kissed him like he was water for him, oxygen, the missing piece to solve a case, like he was his first kiss, his last kiss...and John was kissing the man who had cured him, saved him, kissed away the tears in his voice on the phone before jumping, kissed him like he had wished, yearned to do for 730 days after...and every moment before the fall and after, when he had come back. He was rubbish with words, so he could only kiss Sherlock Holmes and thus answer his implicit questions:

_I'm sure, God...yes, I' m sure, forgive me._

_I love you. I love you._

_I love you so much_.

He would never remember who had initiated the kiss, but he would always remember Sherlock's lips when he broke the kiss, swollen and wet, the flush on his skin, the impossible hue of his eyes, pupils dilated with arousal (hunger, thirst for him) and how wrecked his voice sounded when he eventually spoke. "Your timing, John..." He panted.

"Not good?" He said...and was that his voice? Wrecked as much as Sherlock's.

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile, but it quickly faded into something else: worry, regret and something akin to fear in his eyes...but it went away too quickly. "We shall definitely talk about this when I get back." He said.

They were still close, Sherlock's hands on his waist, John’s gripping his forearms.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"John...I need to make sure Moriarty is indeed dead." Sherlock said...and John distinctly heard loathing and hatred in Sherlock's voice.

"He killed himself. You saw it with your own eyes!" John objected.

"Should I remind you that you saw me jump?" Sherlock said.

John took a step back, but Sherlock's hands on his waist blocked him from going further.

"I never saw your body landing on the pavement." John said.

Oh, he had seen it plenty of times in his dreams, and sometimes he still heard the noise the body made when it touched the pavement. But he had not seen the impact. "I did not check his head, I did not check for any entry or exit wounds, I – wasn't lucid enough to." Sherlock admitted.

"He's dead, Sherlock! You have been back for over a year. Don't you think he would have announced his presence sooner if he were alive?" He tried to be realistic and reasonable, because Sherlock was about to go, to leave (leave him, again) and only a few minutes earlier they had been kissing and John had been at peace, and lust had danced on their skins and blood.

"Moriarty beat me, John. Jumping from that rooftop and all its variables was the worst-case scenario. Hurting you was never my intention. I had to."

_I will burn the heart out of you._

“He said –” John started.

“That he would burn the heart out of me. Yes, I do remember. Who do you think he was talking about?” He asked.

Who…not what, and given what had just happened, given everything that had happened since the day they had met, things were starting to make sense. He was not a genius of deduction, but he could put the pieces together.

“So, what do we do now?” He asked eventually.

He was not about to sit idly on his hands while Sherlock possibly faced Moriarty. That was not going to happen. Apparently, though, Sherlock had different ideas, he let go of his waist and took another step back, freeing himself from his hold and said, “You need to go back to Mary, John. It’s safer for you.”

“You mean going home to my _assassin_ wife is safer than helping you?” John asked.

He saw Sherlock hesitate, for a moment…and John wondered whether Sherlock knew, whether he had suspicions, even though Mycroft had assured him that he didn’t, that he would not know. Even if he did, Sherlock was doing a good job of pretending the contrary.

“She is sincere in her feelings for you, John. She will do anything in her power to protect you.”

“I’m not useless, you know?” He said.

“On the contrary, John Watson. You are invaluable and precious, that is precisely why I am asking you not to put yourself on the line, just this once.” Sherlock moved, closing, once again, the distance between them and looked at him. And John knew that he couldn’t deny him anything.

Magnussen hadn’t known, hadn’t grasped the most obvious truth: Sherlock Holmes was his pressure point, his weakness, his secret.

“What about –” John started.

Sherlock shook his head interrupting him. The game, one John suspected Sherlock was loathing to play that time, was on.

“When I get back, we shall discuss it at length, but not now.” Sherlock smirked and raised his voice saying, “Especially since Mycroft is in the sitting room, doing a rubbish job of pretending he isn’t overhearing us.”

“Your brother is here.” John said. He wasn’t surprised, he was just grateful that the tosser had actually given them a modicum of privacy.

“Yes, he has been here for a few minutes, I think. I was distracted so I’m not sure –” John stopped his flow of words by kissing him, for no reason other than because he could.

He could kiss Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to. Sherlock broke the kiss, John saw him blinking to focus back on what he had to do…, and he was mesmerized. He supposed he should try to do the same, since he probably looked like someone who had been kissed within an inch of his life – he just didn’t care to hide it.

He would have to, he knew that. He would have to go back to the flat, where Mary was undoubtedly waiting for him and pretend his life hadn’t started to finally make sense, that he had forgiven Mary. But that could wait.

“Promise that you’ll stay in touch.” John said, “You didn’t even tell me where you’re going.”

“I will – and I don’t know, yet. Mycroft will no doubt brief me as soon as we leave this room and you leave the flat.” Sherlock said.

“You want me to leave now?” John asked.

He would try and not put himself on the line as Sherlock had asked, but to be left out completely…

“I don’t, actually.” Sherlock murmured, breaking his train of thoughts, “Nevertheless, it would be safer if you left”.

John nodded his head. They both moved. It was time to go back to their real world as crazy, dangerous and impossibly complicated as it was. He looked at the man, he was still wearing his coat, but it did not take a Holmes to deduce what he had been doing.

He almost told him, he almost spoke the words aloud: _I love you. God, I love you so much…_ He didn’t, though.

He didn’t talk and neither did Sherlock. He exited the bedroom and gave a curt nod to Mycroft who was indeed in the sitting room, sipping a cup of tea, a bored look on his face. He thought, later, that he should have stayed, that he should have opened his mouth and said the words, even if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson did not do that sort of thing. He should have let him know – even if it was redundant, obvious. He thought, later, that he should have known, for good things, marvelous things always came with a price. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, John thought. He had probably threatened to leave the hospital in order to protect Mary or something equally stupid and self-destructive. He didn’t know how he knew…he just did. For all his aloofness and frank distaste for sentiment, Mycroft Holmes would do anything to protect his brother. Even sparing the life of the woman who had shot him.

**One Month Earlier**

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to find Mycroft in his flat; the one room he had rented, close to the hospital, so that he could spend time with Sherlock, making sure he wouldn’t inadvertently cause another setback in his recovery.

Mary had offered to leave their home, but he had refused. She loved that house; she had loved decorating it, making it cozy and just the kind of place a newlywed couple would love. He hated it with the burning intensity of a thousand suns.

Going back to Baker Street was out of the question. It was irrational, it was stupid – as Sherlock didn’t tire to repeat every chance he got - , but John hadn’t budged. It was hell commuting to the clinic every day, but he didn’t care.

“John.” Mycroft said greeting him. John blinked. He would never get used to Mycroft Holmes’s entrances and his complete disregard of the basic concept of respecting people’s privacy.

“What are you doing here?” John asked.

He was tired. He wanted to eat something, vegetate in front of the telly for a couple of hours, go to sleep, wake up and find out the last three years of his life had been a nightmare. He was not in the mood to entertain Mycroft Holmes!

“How is my brother?” Mycroft asked, ignoring his question.

“Weak, in constant pain but refusing morphine and bored out of his skull!” John snapped.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, and maybe it was his tired mind, which played tricks on him, but the older man actually looked concerned for a second.

“Since I’m sure you already know his prognosis I’ll spare you the other details.” John said, “You could visit him, you know?”

Mycroft let out a chuckle and shook his head no. “Sherlock has made very clear he’d rather not see me at the moment.” he said.

God, and he thought Harry and he had a dysfunctional relationship!

“He’s bored, frustrated and still obsessed with Magnussen.” John said.

“I see.” Mycroft said, “And how are you?”

“Seriously?” John asked and if he sounded pissed off and incredulous…well, he bloody was!

“Please, John, do sit down. We have matters to discuss. I’m afraid I have made a terrible error in judgement thus causing the current predicament.”

“I think I’ll stand. Now talk!” John said. And he couldn’t care less that the man in front of him could not only order him killed and have his body disappear, but also his entire existence wiped off from the face of the Earth. He was too tired and frankly too furious to give a damn.

“Very well." Mycroft said. And indeed he did talk. He told him a story, of how protection detail had been assigned to the people closest to Sherlock right after his “death”, of how it had been Sherlock’s priority to ensure that even after faking his suicide his friends would be protected, safe from harm.

“He embarked on a dangerous mission on his own and knowing how sentiment is detrimental to one’s lucidity I complied. Only then was he able to focus entirely on his task of bringing down Moriarty’s web.” Mycroft said and well, there was no mistake in the note of pride he could detect in the older man's voice.

Of course Mycroft, being a Holmes, would rather being seen wearing second hand jeans and jumpers before actually showing his little brother that he was proud of him, but that was _not_ the point.

“Go on…” John said.

Mycroft did go on and eventually John did sit, had to, on a chair, as Mycroft told him that Mary was originally assigned to be his protection detail.

“We had crossed paths in previous years, before she went into hiding. She was extremely good at what she did. Once I found her she accepted my offer.” Mycroft looked annoyed, at himself probably, and he sounded sincere when he said, “Please, do believe me when I say that everything she did, after she was placed in your clinic, was in no way endorsed by me. Unfortunately I gave her _carte blanche_ when I enlisted her help.”

“Does – does Sherlock know?” John asked.

He felt numb, his mind refusing to dwell on the implications of what he had just heard. Would that nightmare ever end?

“No, he doesn’t. Whether he suspects or not it’s still unclear." Mycroft said.

_You’ve been very slow._

“He didn’t deduce her.” John said.

“He would have never done anything to jeopardize both your happiness and the delicate balance you had found when he came back.” Mycroft offered as explanation.

“She shot Sherlock!” John said.

Because damn it! He could have forgiven the lies, he could have forgiven her past, he could have tried and make a fresh start, if only because of the child and because Mary had indeed been good at her job. She had saved his life. But...she had almost killed his best friend. How was he supposed to forgive that?

“I’m aware, John – and I can promise you the only reason why she is still breathing is because Sherlock interceded for her!” Mycroft said, his voice dripping with disdain.

He could sympathize with Mycroft and that was something he had never expected to live long enough to experience. What was worst was that part of him seethed at the idea of Mary being killed. She was carrying his child, that wasn’t something he could forget. There was an innocent’s life at stake, his own flesh and blood, now.

“And you listened to him.” John eventually said.

“He can be persuasive when he wants to." Mycroft said, without volunteering more information.

 _Oh_ , John thought. He had probably threatened to leave the hospital in order to protect Mary or something equally stupid and self-destructive. He didn’t know how he knew…he just did. For all his aloofness and frank distaste for sentiment, Mycroft Holmes would do anything to protect his brother. Even sparing the life of the woman who had shot him.

“You said you made an error in judgment.” John said.

“Indeed.” Mycroft said. “She went, shall we say rogue, when Sherlock came back. Since you were engaged to be married, I _assumed_ she would pose no threat. Facts have, of course, proven me wrong.”

“Obviously.” John said, using one of Sherlock’s favorite expressions. “Why are you telling me this?”

“My brother has long chosen to place your safety and happiness above everything else, including his own.” Mycroft said, “But you, John…you have questions, haven’t you? And, I suspect, you’re harboring your own doubts about what happened that night.”

“She shot him in the chest, Mycroft! If she was indeed buying time, as Sherlock claimed, why didn’t she avoid him to flat line on the operation table?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and John wondered, for a moment, whether he had known how close to die Sherlock had really been. “Why indeed.” Mycroft said.

“Why are you here?” John asked, again.

Mycroft’s face remained impassible for a moment but John noticed that he tightened his hold on his umbrella’s handle, just lightly, but it was – something. “Because I think I have been played, John and I do sincerely believe my brother’s life might still be in danger.”

“Do you think Mary could try to kill him again?” John asked.

“No, but I doubt she was working only for me. If she were – well, falling in love for you is one thing, shooting Sherlock is, you will agree, vastly different.” Mycroft replied.

“What do you want me to do?” John asked.

Mycroft smiled, it was that all knowing, patronizing smile he had come to know and loathe, but it was about Sherlock that time, all about protecting him, so he didn't care.

“I will not harm the mother of my child, Mycroft.” John said.

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said, “you will forgive and forget and play the doting husband, or some reasonable fac-simile of it, until we do have more information.”

John shook his head in disbelief. That was Mycroft’s brilliant plan?

“She will know I’m pretending. She knows me.” John protested.

“I doubt it. She is in love with you – she will want to believe you and you will be convincing, for Sherlock. Let’s make this very clear, John: despite his claims to the contrary, my brother does have a moral compass and wants your happiness. I, however, do not. Also, rest assured that whatever your decision will be, I will make everything in my power to protect Sherlock.”

“Are you threatening me?” John asked, “Is that how you want me to help?”

“I’m merely stating the facts.” Mycroft said.

He stood up and went to the door, he stopped for a moment and said, “Do think about our conversation, and make your decision. I would suggest you didn’t tell Sherlock about our _rendez vouz,_ he needs to focus on his recovery.”

“And this is your mess to deal with, not his.” John said.

Mycroft smiled, “Precisely. Have a good night, John. You know where to reach me when you have made up your mind.”

Mycroft left and John stared at the wall, he didn’t know how long, his mind reeling, going back to the dark, horrible months without Sherlock, at how Mary had been there, how she had saved him, made him laugh, how close he had been to just give up. He thought about how understanding Mary had been, how she had never pushed, how she had been just perfect, too good to be true. Even after Sherlock had come back.

She knew, more than anyone, how devastated he had been, how part of him hadn’t stopped grieving, how he still woke up from nightmares and yet she had pulled the trigger.

And Sherlock had almost died twice because of her.

He hid his face in his hands, images of blood, Sherlock's after being shot, jumping at him, mingling with those, always so painstakingly clear, of the pavement outside St. Bart's.

_“My brother has long chosen to place your safety and happiness above everything else, including his own"_

John sighed in his hands. He wanted nothing more than to forget about Mary, but he knew he couldn't, it would never be that easy for him. Mycroft was right, he did have doubts; he wanted answers...and wanted Sherlock to be safe – as safe as their lifestyle allowed, at least.

Sherlock had interceded for Mary, both with Mycroft and with him – and John suspected it had to do with the fact that Mary was carrying his child. Or maybe it was something else altogether; he wasn’t sure he understood what Sherlock’s motive was.

Things had stopped making sense to him, since that night at Leinster Gardens.

_Because you chose her..._

But had he, really?

He had loved a woman who didn’t exist, while crippled by loss, regrets and remorse. He had loved the woman who had been a tether to sanity for him, but he had never stopped and considered how deep Sherlock’s loss run, how it had splintered him, in ways that kept surprising him, kept making the hollow space inside himself grow bigger and bigger.

Truth was that it hadn’t felt like two years. Grief had been a devious companion: silent for days, weeks until it suddenly blindsided him and it felt like the first hours after Sherlock had fallen, when even the simplest task had required all his energy, his brain too numb to realize that it had indeed happened, while his heart knew – God, it knew and fucking shattered all over again.

Had he chosen Mary? Or had he chosen a way not to go crazy?

To think he used to feel guilty, especially at the beginning, toward Mary, thinking that it was unfair to her, that he was too damaged, too filled with things he refused to examine inside himself, too fraught with regrets for things he hadn’t said or done when he had the chance. To think she had shot Sherlock in the chest and hugged him, the morning after, while his heart was still hammering against his ribcage with panic and relief. To think…he had had Sherlock’s blood on his hands, because she couldn’t say the truth. In the end he knew he didn't really have a choice.

He texted Mycroft asking him to meet the following day. He knew that Mycroft probably already had a plan - or a dozen - and he would follow it.

* * *

 

_If they be two,_

_they are two so stiff twin compasses are two:_

_Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show_

_To move, but doth, if the other do;_

-John Donne

 

Sherlock kept his promise to John. He did stay in touch. He never called, not that John had expected him to. He did text him, though. Short texts informing him that he was still alive and, John suspected, bored and frustrated, which was a dangerous combination as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned. He ignored the slivers of worry when Sherlock didn't text either Mycroft or he for two. days.

He didn't know where Sherlock was, what he was doing and Mycroft had told him in very clear terms that he was not to be involved. John tried to go on with his life, as if nothing had changed.

He had always thought he would have been a rubbish spy...and that had not changed. The only thing that made him go on and convincingly pretend was Sherlock. And if he avoided to look at the mirror or if he felt like smashing everything on sight or had to count until 100 every night, before crawling into bed with Mary...well, it was a small price to pay.

Mycroft was still investigating; he had given him the pen drive Mary had given him, asking only not to be informed of any findings unless they directly involved Sherlock. He wouldn’t be able to pretend if he knew the whole truth; Mycroft had nodded his head and had, so far, obliged.

On the second day without texts, John was starting to think about going to Mycroft's office and demand to know Sherlock's location. It was evening of the third day without any contact from Sherlock when the texts finally came.

They had been composed at different times and sent all together.

_I shouldn't have let you go. I don't think I'll ever be able to when I get back. -SH_

_That was sentiment, by the way. -SH_

_I saw a peculiar face in a crowd. Not JM, it was familiar, but I cannot place him. -SH_

_There is a locked door in my mind palace. No handle, no keyhole, no key. I don't remember ever seeing that door, creating the room behind it or its content. Will update with more information about this. -SH_

_I miss you. -SH_

_I can’t sleep. -SH_

_Locked door. Can't open it. Can’t find the key. Moriarty is dead but... -SH_

_Weland. Who is he? -SH_

_S#mething is hApeninng to Me. -S_

John was out of the door ten seconds after he read the last text, his mobile pressed against his ear as he dialed Sherlock's number which, needless to say, was disconnected.

Mycroft, on the other hand, picked up his phone right away. He gave him an address and told him that Anthea would wait for him there.

"What the hell is going on, Mycroft?" John asked.

There was a moment of silence, then Mycroft said, "I'd rather not explain over the telephone."

John stopped walking for a moment. Mycroft Holmes was a complex man, a cold, calculating bastard. He had only one weakness, one pressure point: Sherlock...and his voice had sounded unlike John had ever heard it. There had been genuine worry in the other man's voice. If Mycroft Holmes was worried, things were definitely not good.

"Is Sherlock all right?" John asked.

He needed to know, he needed Mycroft to scoff at him.

"Hurry up, John." Mycroft only said before hanging up the telephone. John's breath caught in his throat. He thought about Sherlock's last text, what had he gotten himself into?

Who was Weland?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness had once been a choice, necessary in order to be better at his job. Sentiment had equaled to weakness, to fear and Sherlock had done his best to be above it. He had failed, as facts could easily demonstrate. Moriarty had indeed tried to burn the heart out of him, threatening the people closest to him, forcing him to jump, forcing him to go back to a way of living he had loathed the first time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem that comes up in Sherlock's thoughts is W.B. Yeats "The Second Coming".   
> Things and dialogues in italic are recollections/flashbacks.

_NEVER seek to tell thy love,_

_Love that never told can be;_

_For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly._

-William Blake

 

Grey walls, two Sicily shaped mold stains on the ceiling. Cotton sheets, military wool covers, the wool itched his skin. Sherlock knew he was in a hospital. The antiseptic smell gave it all away even before he opened his eyes. His tongue felt swollen, his throat was dry.

He had been drugged, past experience told him that since his mind was eerily blank about what had transpired since – he wasn’t even sure how long he had been unconscious – that was the most likely explanation. He touched his face, his stubble indicated that he must have been unconscious at least a couple of days, possibly more; forty-eight hours unaccounted for.

He hated to admit that his recollections of the past few days were unsatisfying, that is to say, there weren't any. The drugs must have tampered with his memories, so much that he didn't know where he was and when he had been admitted to the hospital. Was he still in Ireland? He didn't know. He hated not knowing.

There was only one way to find out: he needed to get up from the bed and actually do something. He felt lethargic. He had been sedated, then. Sherlock pushed himself in a sitting position. The room was not a private one, it was rectangular, with just one single bed at its center, one dresser on the wall to his left, which presumably contained his clothes and personal effects. There weren't any windows in the room, the only lights in the room came from white neons on the ceiling. There wasn't a IV drip next to his bed and he wasn’t attached to one, but there were two fresh needle marks on his left arm. Sherlock got up from the bed, swaying slightly.

His initial assessment about how long he had been unconscious was confirmed when he took notice of the weakness in his legs and how his peripheral circulation was worryingly low. His medical chart wasn't at the foot of his bed. That was not usual. He scratched his head, rolling his eyes at the tangled mop of hair he encountered and looked around, feeling disoriented for a moment. It wasn’t just a matter of not knowing where he was or why he had woken up in a hospital; there was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on, something that kept evading him. And it wasn’t something he liked to feel or admit. Sherlock blamed the drugs in his system for not having noticed the room’s door sooner.

He took some tentative steps toward it; for some reason the floor underneath his soles – green linoleum, recently washed with lemon scented soap, the mop hadn’t been clean to begin with – made him hesitant. He irrationally felt like it could move; swallow him up at any moment like green quicksand, which only made him angry. He thought his days of paranoia and delusions were behind him, together with his addiction to cocaine and opiates.

He focused on the door and immediately slowed to a halt. An iron door? The door was – badly – painted in white, twice, as it was clear by the bubbles of air that dotted the surface. There was rust at the doors' hinges and black stains dotted the whole surface of it, it was stains produced by kicks to the door. Someone, probably a man, had kicked the door while wearing shoes. Had it been him? He didn’t remember. It would have been pointless to kick a closed iron door, but if he hadn’t been in his right mind, who knew what he could have done?

He would try the door, even though he was reasonably sure that it was locked, but not before he put his own clothes on. He was wearing a hospital gown, the room was cold, he could feel goosebumps on his arms and legs. He went to the dresser and opened it, the doors creaked, the dresser was made of low-end metal, painted in gray; his clothes were there, neatly folded on a shelf, his jacket and coat were hanging from two aluminum hangers.

He quickly got dressed, feeling calmer once he had shed the hospital gown, feeling more like himself. Of course his mobile phone, his watch, his belt and the laces of his shoes weren’t among his personal effects, but Sherlock wasn’t surprised. It was upsetting imagining why his belt and laces had been taken away, though. For many a reason. His last recollection was of being in the room he had squatted in, while following the leads on the viral message which featured Jim Moriarty. He had ended up in Dublin, after a short trip to Tunis and a stop in Paris.

Being on his own, again, had reminded Sherlock of the two years he had spent travelling the world to untangle Moriarty’s web. Loneliness had once been a choice, necessary in order to be better at his job. Sentiment had equaled to weakness, to fear and Sherlock had done his best to be above it. He had failed, as facts could easily demonstrate. Moriarty had indeed tried to burn the heart out of him, threatening the people closest to him, forcing him to jump, forcing him to go back to a way of living he had loathed the first time around. He blinked, forcing his thoughts to a halt, trying to go back to his last days in Dublin.

He had enquired, he had followed leads, he had tried to be as inconspicuous as he could, threading carefully, because the last thing he had needed or wanted was to attract any attention to himself. The blanks in his memory were simply unacceptable. He recalled every single detail from the moment Mycroft had called him in the airplane ( _how deus et machina_ of him) until his fourth day in Dublin.

He recalled _feelings,_ connected to the last days, more than images or facts. He recalled the slivers of paranoia that hadn’t abandoned him, the self-doubts when he had revisited his confrontation with Moriarty on the rooftop countless times (stopping always before the phone call, because that couldn’t be useful, that could be distracting, could lead him back with his mind to 221B Baker Street, to John, to John kissing him, to John not wanting him to go, to John _loving_ him), trying to envision scenarios in which Moriarty could have faked his own suicide, much like he had done.

He recalled feeling lonely, he recalled the surprise he had felt upon seeing an oddly familiar face in a crowd: a tall man, lean, draped in a black coat, his curly hair slicked back, observing him with his blue-green eyes. It wasn’t the fact that the face of the man had been familiar that had surprised Sherlock as much as how the other man had stared at him, not in a menacing way, it had been studiously neutral, casual. He had deduced things about the man, but he could recall only fragments of his original thoughts. He recalled that he had stopped whatever had been doing in that moment (following breadcrumbs, sniffing the air and cataloguing the data for later use), but the other man’s face had disappeared, drown in a sea of faces and bodies and Sherlock had lost him.

He recalled his room: a small attic, with a rectangular window, a single bed, an oak dresser, a desktop and a chair, a desk with a lamp and his laptop on it. The room had been clean but cold. He recalled being cold all the time until the very end, when he had started to feel like his skin was being lit on fire. He recalled the kitchenette where he had drunk his tea, consumed his meals. He recalled the small bathroom, with its green tiles, the stained mirror above the sink, the shower with its ugly patterned (polka dots, it smelled of stale water and cheap soap) curtain.

He recalled staring at the ceiling (white, recently painted, done by a left handed man), trying to quell the noise in his mind, the different tangents his mind wanted to go. He recalled being sure that Moriarty was dead, he had found something, a piece of the puzzle slotting into place, making him breathe easier. Had he? He didn’t remember what the proof had been or how he had found it. That was (not good, dangerous, sloppy) upsetting.

He recalled drinking water, a lot of water, the lights too bright, his body temperature suddenly running too high. Had someone spiked the water? Probably. He didn’t remember how it had happened, though. He recalled seeing again that man, just outside his building, the familiarity of his posture, of his eyes prompting him to search his mind palace. Had he been already drugged then? He wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure he could trust his memories until he had further data.

He had searched his mind palace, that much he remembered. Something had happened, though. Something he had found out: a puzzle, a locked room mystery in his own mind, except that it was a locked door, one that he couldn’t open. He had tried to open the door, but nothing had worked. He had recalled a fairy tale mummy had used to tell him when he was a child: “bluebeard”. He had been his first serial killer, but that hadn’t been the point. The point had been something about keys, a bloodied key. A key which unveiled horror.

He had written texts, after, but he didn’t, couldn’t remember what he had written or whether he had sent them. He had run out of his room, he remembered the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, the drumming of his heart beating against his ribcage, the feeling of being chased. He remembered the phantom pain on his back, how the scars there had suddenly hurt and burned.

His mind…had gone and splintered. His recollections stopped; there was just a gaping hole where his memories should be. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, realizing only in that moment that he had ended up sitting (crawling, falling to his knees, a dirty alley. _Here be dragons! And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_ Screams, he had screamed. He had screamed John’s name, another name.), his back against the wall, his knees – scraped, he had noticed as he was getting dressed – pressed against his chest.

He would not panic; he would not be reduced to a quivering, sniveling mess like with

_Redbeard._

(Not just that, not just that. Padded room, bare feet, a straightjacket, snarls – his own? -, something…something in his mind, hidden, waiting to be _unleashed)_

He was not that person anymore. He was not a child, he was not frail. He had been drugged, quite certainly with some psychotic drug, he would demand a toxicology scan, he would demand to have his bloody phone back and would settle the matter. He forced himself to stand up; he had never cowered in his life and he wasn’t about to start. He took some steps, focusing on his heartbeat, on his muscles, tendons, bones.

He was usually hyperaware of his body, of his movements, of his organs doing their work, of his cells, neurons working. He did not have that, now. His body felt different, he felt uneasiness at that thought. He paced the room, trying to remember when and how he had gotten there. It was useless to pretend he didn’t know, hadn’t known since he had seen the iron door that he was in a psychiatric hospital, he had known even before he saw that they had taken away the belt and laces. He had been drugged, it was plausible he had had some sort of psychotic breakdown; therefore, he had been admitted to that hospital, sedated (had he been violent? Had he posed a danger to himself and others? His wrists weren’t bruised and he hadn’t been bound to the bed. That was…peculiar).

He heard footsteps, just outside his room (prison cell), he stopped and sat on the bed. He would not make a scene; he would not antagonize those people, whomever they were. He schooled his face into a blank expression, his hands neatly folded on his lap. He could be calm, polite, charming even. He could feel panic, tiny pinpricks of it crawling just beneath his skin.

 Someone unlocked the door, (two turns of key, standard lock, he had been dangerous, possibly violent, then -- yet he hadn't been bound to the bed.), it opened with a creak that grated on Sherlock's nerves. Four people entered the room: two orderlies, both tall and largely built, the one on the left of the door had curly auburn hair, blue eyes, right handed, recently divorced, had a large dog and was studying to either become a paramedic or a nurse; he wasn't easily scared or upset by patients lashing out at him. He was competent, self-assured.

The man on the right was slightly bulkier, black hair and brown eyes, short sighted, new at the job, he needed the money, was in a long-term relationship, prone to bursts of violence, still upset at patients’ behavior. He had a split lip and Sherlock was wondering if he had been the one who had caused it, it would certainty explain the presence of two orderlies in the room, and the scowl split lip was sporting.

There was a woman, a nurse, she reminded him of Molly Hooper a little: long brown hair, pale complexion, mousy, smart, soft hearted, loyal and competent; she even had a cat, a black one, was seeing someone in the staff, but her mind was completely focused on her job. He finally took a good look at the doctor, who was looking at him, aware of his scrutiny, allowing him to do so.

That middle aged man – he looked like someone who had walked through the fire and had survived, not without consequences, though; the hardships of his life had left scars, it was clear on his lean body, vibrating with nervous energy (orphan, oldest child, alcoholic father, excelled in academics, chose medicine, lonely). Yes, the man knew fire, hardships, there were deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, that almost didn't allow him to imagine how he had looked like once, who he had been (former alcoholic, insomniac, lost someone, clean clothes, ironed his own shirts, ambidextrous), before a thick beard covered his sharp cheekbones, and his lips had been thin and not pulled in a line (frustrated with his job, with bureaucracy).

Fire, loss, heartbreak hadn't been able to stifle the spark in his clear, blue eyes, gleaming with intelligence and, possibly terrible for him, a good heart.

"Mr. Holmes,” the doctor spoke, a hint of Southern London accent in his deep voice. "How are you feeling today?"

Sherlock bit back a sharp retort; he didn't need to antagonize the people who had all the data. He considered for a moment the answer and then decided to be more or less honest. "Confused, I'm afraid."

The doctor nodded, as if he had expected that answer. "Do you know what day is it?"

"No...and my recollections are frustratingly elusive at the moment." Sherlock said.

He should ask what in the bloody hell had happened, but for some reason he could not bring himself to.

There was tension in the people in the room, almost as if they expect him to fall apart at any given moment. "Do you remember talking to me before?" The doctor asked.

Sherlock shook his head. No, he didn't remember taking to that man, or having woken up in that room before. That much was clear, could they possibly move on?

"No. Why am I in a psychiatric hospital?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor (doctor Samuel Clive, psychiatrist, neurologist M.D, the nametag on his white coat read), cocked an eyebrow at him, in surprise, and Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at him. "Iron door, no belt and laces, no windows in the room, needle marks on my forearm –” He gave a half shrug and said, "since I'm not hurt in any visible way, it was a ..."

"Logical assumption. Yes, you're right. You are in St. Patrick's Hospital in Dublin." Doctor Clive said. He didn’t volunteer more information. He was carefully treading the waters, trying to gather what he could and could not say and Sherlock’s patience was wearing thin.

“How long have I been here, doctor?” Sherlock asked. Good bedside manners were not going to help him, he needed facts!

“What’s the last thing you remember, Mr. Holmes?” The doctor asked, the tone of his voice carefully neutral.

Yet a look at his eyes was enough to know that the doctor had sensed he was losing his patience. He didn’t like how the older man was evading his simple questions. It made him feel uneasy, so in a clipped tone he said, “I was running down a flight of stairs in the building where I had temporary quarters, I went out of the building, it was night, I entered an alley – ” He blinked his eyes, he had been gripping his mobile phone in his hand, his heart gone crazy in his chest, his vision blurred, his throat on fire. He had been drugged, he was almost positive of that, but his recollections stopped in that moment.

“I don’t remember —” He admitted finally.

Once again, the doctor didn’t look surprised by his words, he gestured with his eyes to the bed, asking permission to sit (there weren’t any chairs in the room, nor desks, only a small bedside table.), Sherlock nodded and gave the man room, wondering why he hadn’t noticed the bedside table right away.

His musings were interrupted by the doctor asking, “What do you remember about before, Mr. Holmes?”

Could that man be part of a larger plan? The doctor had kept his voice carefully soft, but Sherlock hadn't liked the question.

"I was here, in Dublin, on vacation." Sherlock lied.

The doctor nodded and said, "And before that?"

"How long have I been here, doctor?" Sherlock hissed.

He was not going to answer any more questions until the doctor answered his.

"You have been admitted here four days ago." The doctor said eventually. He wasn't lying, Sherlock was sure, but he was still withholding information.

"Why here? Why not in a hospital?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor's lips curled in a small smile before he said, "You asked me the same question the day before yesterday, you were lucid for a short time."

"What did you answer?" Sherlock asked.

The man looked at him, for a moment, trying to assess how volatile his current state of mind was, then asked, "Mr. Holmes, what can you tell me about your life before you came to Dublin?"

"What does it matter? I clearly have been drugged!" Sherlock couldn't help but rolling his eyes that time. He had run out of patience and wanted answers!

"You weren't, Mr. Holmes. Your toxicology tests came up negative." He tilted a folder up, showing him, "You demanded to have those tests run, and I complied."

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, to tell that man that there were drugs that would not be seen with run of the mill toxicology tests, but he decided against it. He knew how doctors in psychiatric hospitals thought; he knew that the less he said the better. He hated to admit that he would have to contact Mycroft, and ask for his assistance. "What is your diagnosis, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Psychotic break." Doctor Clive said.

"Dull. Predictable." Sherlock said.

"On your insistence, I have tried to contact both your brother and your friend, John Watson." Doctor Clive said.

There was hesitancy in his voice and demeanor, now. He saw the two orderlies discreetly move forward, the nurse was holding a syringe in her pocket, ready to intervene. Sherlock Holmes knew fear, it could save one's life, on occasion...it could paralyze body and mind. He had seldom felt genuine dread, though. He was experiencing dread in that moment and It was different from the artificial horror he had felt at Baskerville; he had experienced a similar feeling on St. Bart's rooftop, years before (before that there had been trees and rocks, blood everywhere, gunshots, his heart in his throat, applying pressure on a wound, hands taking him away, dragging him away and...no! _here be dragons! Turning and turning in the widening gyre. The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold_  ...why that poem? He hated poetry!). Dread: his stomach dropping, blood like acid in his veins, burning and eroding, his throat dry.

"There is not a Mycroft Holmes in London or anywhere in England, for that matter, and _your_ – John Watson, died seven months ago, the night you were both shot!"

* * *

 

 

*

_All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone,_

_and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness._

_-Richard Siken_

They were thorough; Sherlock had to grant them that. Clever, even. Sherlock was impressed. And furious. At first, Doctor Clive’s words had almost had a physical effect on Sherlock: he had felt dizzy, breathless.

John, dead. An oxymoron in and on itself.

John Watson was – everything vibrant and alive in his life. He had once called him his “conductor of light” and he had been honest, fearing that, perhaps, he had given too much of himself away by telling him just how important he was to him. He had also been callous, cruel even – but at the core of it all, behind his harsh words and his frankly appalling behavior, there had been that simple truth: John Watson was his conductor of light, he was clarity when things were blurred, confused, mere data without any depth or sense, he provided calm for the constant maelstrom inside of him, he was his moral compass, even when he hadn’t wanted to have one, he was his heart – to be cherished, to be protected, to be guarded, at all costs.

John Watson could _not_ be dead. That was simply unacceptable and patently untrue!

It had been that absolute certainty that had kept him going, after the initial confusion. Perhaps it had been the drugs still operating in his system, but for the briefest moment he had been confused, especially when doctor Clive had showed him a printed article about the shooting which had supposedly killed John.

They were good... they (generic, hateful term) had constructed a life that was not his own, hinting at it in the article. A burglary gone pear shaped, something so mundane and far from their actual lives to be almost offensive. An act of senseless, random violence. Two men woken up from their slumber by a burglar, shots fired in panic, chest wounds, a rush to the hospital, John's heart failing in the ambulance. Senseless, false, incorrect, atrocious.

The article had inferred a different life for him, one in which he was not a consulting detective, one in which he clearly had a different past, without dangers and drugs, without Mycroft's overbearing presence, without Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, without Mary . Yes, they had been good, thorough.

He had asked Doctor Clive for his mobile phone and his wallet, and the doctor had had them fetched for him, he had also sent the orderlies and the nurse away; he supposed it might have been a show of trust on the other man’s part. Whichever the root of his current predicament was, Sherlock was reasonably sure that the doctor genuinely meant to help him, nothing in his body language, in his demeanor suggested foul play.

The doctor had left him alone, shortly after he had received his items. He was now inspecting the contents of his wallet: money, useless rubbish which he normally wouldn’t keep in his wallet; his identity card prompted him to get up from his bed and move under the neon light. God, he needed his magnifying glass! The picture in it was different, he didn’t remember ever taking it, the birth date was the same, the address was different – apparently whoever had concocted that scheme had decided 221B Baker Street was not a suitable living arrangement for John and he which, for some reason, he had found upsetting.

Baker Street was _home_ to him, in every sense of the word. He was also a musician, according to whoever had organized that …game? Scheme?

The identity card was, as far as he could see, genuine, though. It wasn’t a false document, he was uncannily good at recognizing those. So was his social security number, his driving license and his credit card. They were all under his real name and he distinctly remembered travelling under an alias, he had used one identity kindly provided by Mycroft while in Dublin.

Yet, that was his wallet, the one he had left in London, it was an old, black leather wallet he had had for years, he recognized it. He looked around in the room wondering if he was being observed, if he was someone’s guinea pig, if (Moriarty? No, not him. He was dead. He was sure about that, he had found proof! Hadn’t he?) someone was having a golly time watching him (dance) trying to deduce the truth and make sense of all the lies. He kept rummaging through his wallet and had to blink when he saw the picture tucked in a secret compartment of the wallet – in his real life, the one outside that room, he used to hide cocaine or hashish in that space. It was empty now, except for some lint.

That picture couldn’t possibly exist! John and he were smiling in that picture, taken at what it looked like a social gathering; they were both wearing black suits, white shirts and black ties. Sherlock looked at the picture, not able, for a moment, to observe it; That would come later, he was sure, but for the time being he could just look: the familiarity of their body language, his arm casually drooped around John’s shoulder, tucking him in, his fingers possessively spread on his arm, as if John belonged to him, and John had an arm around his waist, and such a look of devotion in John's eyes as he looked at him that Sherlock could only blink again and again.

He…the man who looked like him, was smiling as well in the picture, and he looked happy, content. The man in the picture probably didn’t know what boredom was, hadn’t faced death (yet) over and over, hadn’t killed in cold blood, hadn’t faked his own death and had to remember to keep up the façade as the man who mattered the most to him fell apart not two meters away from him. That man hadn’t been chained to walls and been beaten within a inch of his life, hadn’t had to watch his only tether to humanity, his heart, his conductor of life, marrying a woman.

He hated the man in the picture. He hated how uncannily accurate that fabrication was. He hated it that he couldn’t stop looking at the picture and think about the few, scattered through the years, that John and he had taken together, which John kept in his laptop. He tucked the picture back in the wallet, resisting the sudden urge to throw that blasted thing against a wall. Even if there weren’t hidden cameras, it was only logical to assume doctor Clive or some of his less intelligent peers would monitor him. He had to control his feelings.

He therefore put the wallet on the bedside table and focused on his mobile phone. From the outside it looked exactly like his mobile: same scratches, same tactile sensations upon touching it; the password: 14M2, was the same one he used. A random alphanumeric sequence.

 _Is it? And how often, pray say, do you rely on randomness, brother mine?_ Mycroft’s voice was loud and clear in his mind, it was somewhat comforting to hear his brother's smarmy voice in that moment, it gave him a sense of normalcy, of welcomed balance. Nevertheless he chose to ignore those words and their implication, refraining, just barely, from speaking aloud. The background of his mobile was the same one he used, impersonal, inconsequential; of course, there was no signal and no wi-fi, so both making phone calls and trying to access the internet was impossible.

There were differences from his mobile: less phone numbers, and except for John’s – how maudlin the fact that seven months after his supposed death he would still keep his number in his address book? Sentimental and illogical – he didn’t recognize any of the numbers in it. It was like going through the mobile phone of an unknown person, one who had his face and name, but was not him.

There were texts, most of the ones kept were from John, and it didn’t take impressive powers of deduction to come to the conclusion that in that constructed scenario, John and he were in a romantic, committed relationship with each other. Of course, how could it have been any different? John was his pressure point, his major weakness – and what made him stronger, better, human, frail and, most of all, happy.

What they had, in his real life, was complicated, dangerously fraught with unsaid things and fears. They had only kissed once, and it had come as a surprise for Sherlock; to actually see, hear and feel the love in John had been something he had never expected to experience. To kiss John, to allow himself, even for the briefest moment, to love him had been something of a shock to his system. It had left him giddy, worried, confused – human. Yet, he would do it again in a heartbeat. He would give anything to go back to John, to continue what they had started, to bask in what he had felt in his bedroom with him.

Those musings were not in any way helpful to his current situation, but they reminded him of his real life, of what he had left behind. He shook his head, focusing on the matter at hand: the man whose mobile he was inspecting lead a comfortable, dull, boring life; one in which John was his partner in all things. He saw what the fabrication inferred, he was starting to understand what the possible plan could be: how the boring and dull musician (violinist, classically trained at the Royal Academy of Music) Sherlock Holmes had his life destroyed by a senseless and random act of violence and had consequently lost his mind.

Clever, thorough – even worse than what Moriarty had done three years before. He was defenseless, unable to contact Mycroft, unable to prove his claims to the doctors. He was sure that even if he managed to access the internet he would not find anything but the narrative that had been created. Judging by the noises he could hear from outside the room, as muffled as they were by the thick iron door, he was indeed in a mental institution, it was a real psychiatric hospital.

He needed to find out why he had been brought there, what had happened, since there was still a gaping hole in his memories – which he hoped to replenish that night, trying to go back with his mind at his last concise memories.

_If your amnesia is drug induced, your attempts will be useless, you know that._

Sherlock blinked, where had that voice come from? It was clear, in the back of his mind, it was a male voice, warm, soft, familiar – and yet he was sure he had never heard it in his life. He had been drugged, sedated (but not bound to the bed…think, _think!_ Why hadn't he been bound?)

His mind was sluggish, he was tired, unnaturally so, but he needed to think. The voice was right, if he had been drugged with flunitrazepam, rohypnol he would not remember anything. Even if his toxicology scan didn’t show any sign of drugs in his system, that didn’t mean he hadn’t been drugged. He had no way of knowing whether those results were genuine. How had it happened? When?

_Black ink on the mirror in the bathroom._ _“Beware of the water”; “careful”_

_Bottled water on his desk, a different from the brand he had been drinking, that only made him thirstier. The bottled water on the desk had quenched his thirst; it hadn't made him feel like he was on fire.Someone had entered his room and had left a warning. Whom?_

_Blue- green eyes, locking gazes, his hand on the cold glass of the window._

_A dark coat, curly brown hair. A lean figure, a familiar posture._

_He had run, run and run out of his room, to reach that man, to ask him who he was, his heart beating strongly in his chest. He had been drugged, how could he have been so bloody stupid?_

_Why had he refused MI6’s safe house?_

Sherlock shook his head. There had been something in the water; he had been too distracted, too focused on the trail he had been following to bloody notice. Someone had, though. Someone had tried to warn him. He had found out about Moriarty, about the viral message.

Had he talked to Mycroft? He couldn’t remember. He must have not; otherwise he wouldn’t be in that hospital room. He must have evaded Mycroft’s men and their surveillance or maybe they had been disposed of. He hated thinking in terms of _maybes,_ he hated operating without facts and using incomplete data, but he didn’t have another choice at the moment.

He placed his mobile on the bedside table, next to his wallet, and got up from the bed, pacing the room for a moment. He had to get out of that room, see the building he was in, he had to find a way to get out of that forsaken place and go back to London, to his real life, to John.

 _Always so impatient, Sherlock_. That voice, again. Fondly exasperated, with a hint of amusement in it, familiar, warm. It elicited an emotional response in Sherlock, one whose origin he couldn’t ascertain because he had never heard that voice in his life!

He was starting to feel caged in that room, with no windows and that artificial light. He could feel beads of perspiration on his forehead and his pulse quickening. What was worrying was the slowness with which his mind was catching up with his body, there was a sense of disconnection between his mind and his body; he was slow and he couldn't afford that weakness, not in that place, not if he wanted to go back to his real life! It took him two strides to reach the bathroom's door. He saw his fingers curling around the handle; he felt the metal, cold against his skin, as he opened the door.

He blindly sought the light switch and flicked it, revealing a small room: blue tiles, a small shower stall with white, plastic curtains, a mirror - which surprised Sherlock, weren't they afraid one could shatter it in order to kill himself? - , there was a small square window, no more bigger than an air duct, closed with a lock (standard lock, it would take him five seconds to pick it, but what for?), the bathroom was clean, it smelled of bleach and lemon disinfectant. He went to the sink, ignoring the mirror; he turned on the tap and splashed his wrists, neck, face and hair with cold water, breathing easier.

He was thirsty, even though he could smell limestone in the water; he would not drink tap water (he hadn't drunk it in the attic either, had he? He had only drank from bottled water, yet he had been warned about the water), instead he splashed his face again, appreciating how the cold water forced clarity into his mind. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, spots of light dancing behind his closed eyelids, water drops trailing down his neck, goosebumps on his skin. He could not allow his body to betray him, not if he wanted to get out of there.

When he opened his eyes he was in his mind palace. The relief he felt almost shamed him, for a moment. He allowed himself to smile seeing the familiar walls of his flat at Baker Street.

“Shall we get to work?” The voice behind him asked. It was that voice, again.

Sherlock turned; it was the man he had seen in the crowd, the man who had been outside his building: tall, lean, draped in a long, black coat, curly light brown hair, a goatee, blue-green eyes looking at him with fondness, curiosity, intelligence. He was standing still, but of one thing Sherlock was sure, the man in front of him, whoever he was, was not used to standing still.

“Who are you?” He asked.

“Unimportant” It was Mycroft’s voice, behind him. Sherlock turned; his brother was standing against a wall, a decidedly bored expression on his face. “You have more pressing matters to attend, brother mine. A fragment of your imagination in this ridiculous mind palace is hardly what you should focus on.”

“He’s right, you know?” It was John’s voice, on his right. Sherlock turned and couldn’t help the irrational rush of relief he felt upon seeing him.

He knew that was not real, he knew that John was still in London, safe, probably worried about him if they still hadn’t determined his location (wouldn’t the gps on his mobile give it away? Why hadn’t he been found yet?)

“That is an interesting question, Sherlock: why indeed.” Mycroft said, commenting his thoughts.

Sherlock threw a glance at his brother; Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and said, “I didn’t ask to be here, Sherlock. Now, would you concentrate?” “

I agree,” The man in the black coat said, “you need to concentrate, Sherlock.”

John was next to him, so close that their shoulders were brushing, and Sherlock ignored the other two men in the room and looked at John: it was incredible how just looking at the man he could feel himself thinking more clearly, the fog that had surrounded him, since he had woken up, lifting.

“What do we do?” John asked.

Sherlock was uncertain. That was the only place where he allowed himself to be hesitant, uncertain. He looked at John and said, “I’m not sure yet –”

“We need to find out which drug has been used on you,” John said.

“Moriarty. Are you really sure he is dead, Sherlock? Where is the elusive proof you have found out?” Mycroft said.

The black coated man wasn’t talking, he had taken a few steps, getting close to them. John didn’t seem alarmed by the other man’s presence, he was accepting of it and Mycroft – well, Mycroft was looking at the man with a wary look in his eyes.

_“It’s all right, Sherlock. It’s all right. Help is on its way.”_

_A cold hand against his forehead, burning with fever and drugs. It was welcome, it was – familiar._

_“You need to breathe, Sherlock. For me. Breathe, all right?”_

“You…” Sherlock trailed.

He didn't know how to continue his sentence. Who was that man?

The black coated man shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t mind me. Focus on getting out of here.”

“There is another angle, you know?” The voice, Moriarty’s, came from the doorway. He couldn’t see him, not clearly; Moriarty was hidden in the shadows; the man took a few steps and Sherlock instinctively moved, shielding John with his own body.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” The black coated man muttered under his breath when Moriarty stepped into the room.

Sherlock noticed that he had moved as well...to shield him with his body.

“Maybe…just, _maybe,_ they’re right! Maybe it was all in your mind.” Moriarty said. “Maybe I’ve always been a fragment of your overactive imagination, the delusions of a musician who lost his beloved. It is the more logical assumption, you know that!"

Moriarty was smiling; he was dressed in his Richard Brook attire, completed with the earnest, fearful look in his eyes. Underneath it all he could still see that spark, that fire that had almost burned him, three years before.

“Think about it, Sherlock – why isn’t big brother saving you? Why isn’t John tearing Dublin apart to find you?” Moriarty took another step, “You saw the picture, it is not a fake. You saw the mobile phone. What might we deduce about this?”

Moriarty was smiling, enjoying his silence, savoring the tiny slivers of self-doubt he had experienced since he had seen the article and the picture.

“I should have had you killed when you were in custody.” Sherlock hissed.

Moriarty was still smiling; he took another step, closing the distance between them. Sherlock had to resist the urge to flinch back; he let the other man’s eyes observe him before he said, “You should have, but then again maybe I’m not real, maybe I’ve always been here –” he said, gesturing at the room around them and then touched his forehead.

“Get. Out.” Sherlock said. Moriarty’s image flickered out of the room, and Sherlock looked around. He was alone, now. Alone in Baker Street – he had work to do, and he had the feeling he didn’t have much time.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search  
> my body for the scars, thinking  
> Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?  
> -Richard Siken (Wishbone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting for a while, RL has been hectic and I literally didn't have time to get anything done:)

_I swear, I end up feeling empty,_

_like you’ve taken something out of me,_

_and I have to search my body for the scars,_

_thinking Did he find that one last tender place_

_to sink his teeth in?_

_-Richard Siken (Wishbone)_

 

Sherlock was alive. That was the only thing Anthea had volunteered when he had asked her. She hadn’t answered any of the other questions he had asked and John, eventually, had stopped talking.

It hadn’t come as a surprise that he had been brought to a military base. And to be honest he couldn’t care less where they took him as long as he could see Sherlock and make sure he was all right. He had been given a badge, with a level of security clearance he wasn't even aware it existed except in movies and had followed two soldiers and Anthea, who kept writing on her Blackberry, to an elevator. He was brought into what it looked like a military hospital, the most modern and organized John had ever seen.

He felt dread rising with every step he took, while he silently followed the two soldiers and Anthea down a corridor at whose end he spotted Mycroft, who was talking to a very tall, dark haired doctor. The soldiers and Anthea left and he waited in silence while Mycroft and the doctor carried on their conversation in ushered tones and John kept his hands stifled in closed fists against his sides.

   Mycroft was ignoring him and never had John wished more to punch someone as in that moment! John looked around: why was Sherlock in a military, top-secret base? Why was he not in a civilian hospital? Sherlock had spent _months_ in a hospital and except for providing more comfortable accommodations Mycroft had not interfered. He kept telling himself that Sherlock was alive, that he hadn’t lost him, that once Mycroft would get his head out of his arse he would finally tell him what the hell was going on.

   Mycroft was worried as well, he could tell; he had gotten quite good at reading both Holmes’s brothers for the past five years: on the outside the older man was the very picture of aloofness, of cold detachment – but John could see the cracks in the façade, in the set of his shoulders, in the tilt of his head, in how he was almost _leaning_ on his umbrella, as if it was a cane. If the doctor noticed the distress in Mycroft, he wisely chose not to show it, John didn’t hear what they were talking about, apparently he wasn’t deemed worthy of listening to that conversation, even though he was a doctor, Sherlock’s physician and Sherlock and he – well, they had kissed, finally, and Sherlock had texted him, and he had missed him and done a rubbish job at pretending he didn’t.

   Finally… _bloody_ finally, the doctor left, sparing him a glance, the look in his light blue eyes showed some empathy, which given the place they were in, it actually scared John.

    “John.” Mycroft said, his voice adding another chink to the armor, and John wondered whether Mycroft noticed – whether he cared at all. “What’s going on?” He asked. He didn’t have time to make small talk, he needed to know.

    “Is he all right?” John asked. Mycroft looked at him for a moment, and John saw he was deciding what to tell him and suddenly he was that close to deck the other man and he didn’t even care that it would probably have consequences.

Mycroft squared his shoulders and said, “He was in Ireland, Dublin to be exact, following a lead. Our team lost any trace of him."

Mycroft’s lips curled in a sneer, which made him actually pity the poor sods who had lost Sherlock – most probably Sherlock had found a way to throw them off his back – until he remembered that Sherlock was in a fucking military hospital and Mycroft was worried.

   “He was found in alley last night; the building he was staying in was burned down – after he was stabilized…”

   “What do you mean stabilized?” John asked.

    “His general prognosis was worrying,” Mycroft only said, “there were some concerns about his heart rate and blood clots, but as I said, he was stabilized and brought here early this afternoon.”

He still wasn’t telling him all of it. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t have been brought to that structure, by private airplane most probably, for fucking blood clots! Sherlock would have thrown a fit; he would hear his complains from that hallway, unless...

    “How is he, now?” John asked.

    Only when Mycroft gestured to a door behind him, did John notice it. They were in fact standing in front of two doors, both of them could only be opened with electronic cards, and John felt a rush of panic grasping his insides, nevertheless he followed Mycroft inside one of the rooms; it was an office, scarcely furnished: just a desk, two chairs, a computer, a led screen on one of the walls and a mirror on another.

    “He sent me a few texts not two hours ago, it can’t be that bad!” John said.

   Mycroft shook his head and for a moment the mask fell off completely, for a moment he looked exhausted, worried sick about his little brother and again dread, fear gripped at John’s insides, squeezing his lungs and heart, making him dizzy. “His mobile phone wasn’t among his personal effects. It was either taken away from him while he was in that alley or it was taken in his quarters. He did not send those texts, I received some as well and I was with Sherlock when it happened.”  Mycroft said.

John shook his head in disbelief. Why would anyone send Sherlock's unsent texts after he had been recovered? He chose to ignore the fact that one would be able to take Sherlock’s mobile away only if the man was unconscious, they would have to pry it away from his hands.

    “How is he, now? Can I see him?” John asked _I need to. How am I supposed to breathe if I don’t know he is all right?_

   Mycroft seemed to read his implicit questions; there was a moment of silence, one that John knew he would never forget, it seemed to go on forever, stretching and roaring and John wanted to grab the older Holmes, shake him and demand that he made things okay, that he undid whatever had happened before he spoke, because he knew that when he did, whatever it was, it would become real.

    Mycroft took a folder and a remote from the desk. He hadn’t even noticed they were there, Sherlock would have, though; he would have known right away what was going on, he would have deduced it all and engaged in one of those annoying scenes with Mycroft, where each pretended not to give a toss about the other, when the truth was something different altogether…and he would watch, amused and exasperated, and maybe he would stare at Sherlock like a loon, because sometimes he couldn’t help it, and things would have been okay, normal.

   John accepted the folder Mycroft handed him but didn’t open it yet, he watched, as Mycroft pressed a button on the remote and the mirror flickered, revealing… Sherlock. He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the man behind the two-way mirror. The room he was in was white: from the walls, to the pavement, to the sheets of the bed Sherlock was sitting on. The only spots of color were Sherlock’s dark hair and the gray pants and short sleeved shirt he was wearing.

   Sherlock wasn’t moving, he was pale, deep circles under his eyes, his pupils were completely blown, so much that there were just thin rings of blue circling them. He was unnaturally still. He had seen Sherlock lost in concentration, not moving for hours, yet that was different. The stillness in his body was…it brought him back to Afghanistan or earlier, to his rounds in psychiatry, during his uni days.

    “He’s catatonic!” John said, without looking at Mycroft.

     “No. He shows some of the symptoms associated with catatonia, but the tests run on him show no sign of it.” Mycroft only said.

    He was next to him, now, and it took John some effort to tear his eyes away from Sherlock and look at the other man. Mycroft’s face was a blank mask. The armor was now impenetrable, and John could sympathize.

    “What happened?” He asked, and God – he hated how hoarse and nasal his voice was. Breathing had become an afterthought, something that was stuck in his throat and tasted salty and bitter, like tears.

    “We don’t know.” Mycroft said and there were hints of weariness and worry in his voice.

    “What do you mean you don’t know? How is it even possible?” John said, and he didn’t care if he was shouting. Sherlock was catatonic!

    “He was delirious when he was brought to the hospital, experiencing a full-fledged psychotic break, shortly afterward he –” Mycroft paused, and John didn’t know whether the other man was looking for the right words or whether he was struggling with them. “He slipped into this state.” Mycroft concluded.

   John closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them when Mycroft said, “Our doctors think he has been drugged; unfortunately we still haven’t determined which kind of drug has been used. His toxicology scan presented traces of amphetamines and rohypnol, which doesn’t explain his current prognosis, but can give us some insight on his state of mind for the last few days.”

   “How could it happen?” John asked, still trying to process what Mycroft was telling him.

    “I don’t know, but believe me when I say I will find out.” Mycroft said.

    And yes, now he could hear genuine rage in his voice. Heads would roll for sure and John would be only too happy to lend a hand.

    “So, if it’s a drug, there must be an antidote, something to bring him back.” John said.

    “Once we determine the drug used to cause his condition, yes, indeed.” Mycroft said, and John thought about the ushered tone of the conversation Mycroft had had with the doctor and shook his head.

    “You haven’t the first clue about what is it, do you?” He asked. That was a nightmare. It had to be.

    Mycroft shook his head. “We are monitoring his condition, we are preventing its worsening, I have enlisted the help of our chief experts in the field, this is just _temporary.”_

    John’s eyes were stinging now, because Mycroft – Mycroft had sounded as if he wanted to reassure himself that his brother would be okay, that he would save him, that he would do his big brother job, like he always did.

    “Was it Moriarty? Did he do that? Sherlock texted me saying he was dead, but…” John asked trying to distract Mycroft and himself.

     “Jim Moriarty is dead, John. I received proof from Sherlock shortly before he ceased communication with either of us.” Mycroft said – but it didn’t make feel John any better. If anything, considering Sherlock's last texts, he didn't know whether they could trust those alleged proofs. “Who did it, then?” John asked, suddenly feeling the weight of the folder he was holding in his hand. He had forgotten about it.

   “Sherlock believed it was an associate of the late Jim Moriarty’s. It was a working theory, though, subjected to change.” There was a moment of silence, Mycroft seemed to choose his words carefully, even more so than usual, before saying, “I take it you received some texts from Sherlock, may I see them?”

   John blinked his eyes, surprised. _What?_ First of all…he was surprised Mycroft didn’t already have access to all the texts sent from both Sherlock and his mobile phone, second of all…what?

   “John, I can promise you I am supremely uninterested in your romance with my brother.” Mycroft did almost sound annoyed at something so trivial.

   John spared a glance at Sherlock. He was still sitting on the bed; he noticed the IV pole next to the bed and the needle disappearing into his arm. He looked thinner. Had he been eating at all during those two weeks? Sherlock Holmes was – larger than life. He had never met someone so alive, so full of nervous energy, so brilliant. Once he had entered his orbit, he hadn’t been able to go back to what his life had been before. He had lived without Sherlock, lived with the silence, the emptiness; the constant feeling of living half a life, one in monochrome and it had almost killed him. He had been sure nothing could be worse than that. He had been wrong. Seeing Sherlock like that, seeing him frail, pale, paralyzed by a false sense of immobility was infinitely worse. It was like someone’s bad idea of a cosmic joke.

    Whoever it was, whoever had done that to Sherlock John would kill them if given a chance. He handed Mycroft his mobile, without tearing his eyes away from Sherlock. How had it happened? How had Sherlock not realized he was being drugged? Had he been distracted? Had he – lacked focus and concentration because of him? He should have been there, with him; Mary, Moriarty and everything else be damned.

    Looking out for Sherlock, covering his back, being his partner was what John did. You have missed this. Just the two of us against the rest of the world ... Sherlock’s fingers twitched, it was nothing more than a reflex, but John took a step forward, his face almost pressed against the mirror.

   He saw Sherlock swallowing, his eyes blinking, a soft pant escaping from his lips and John wondered, for a moment, what was he seeing, what he was experiencing.

   “Christ…” He muttered under his breath, and almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Mycroft’s intake of breath.

   He turned toward the man, who was looking at his mobile phone as if it could detonate at any second and asked, “What?”

   For a moment Mycroft didn’t reply, he gave no sign of having heard him at all and John experienced of moment of utter horror, because he didn’t think Mycroft could be like that: alarmed, flabbergasted…scared.

   Mycroft shook his head, schooling his face and voice in his usual smarmy attitude, but he could not unsee what he had just seen. “If you excuse me, John. I shall return shortly. You might want to read Sherlock’s medical file, meanwhile.” Mycroft said, and John knew when he was being dismissed.

  Too bad he didn’t give a shit in that moment; he needed answers! He was tired of being kept in the dark by the Holmes’s brothers! It never ended well.

  “What in the bloody hell is going on, now?” John said.

   Mycroft was at the door, he stopped for a moment and looked at him and his voice was uncharacteristically gentle when he said, “Please, I shall answer the questions you have when I come back. Do read the file.”

   Mycroft left him alone in the office, with a thick file, the image of Sherlock sitting still on the bed, almost being swallowed by the white in the room and John wanted to punch something, smash his fist against a wall and curse and scream until he was hoarse.

   He did nothing of the sort. It would not help Sherlock and that was the only thing that mattered. He blinked, oblivious of the moisture trailing down his cheeks and sighed, before sitting and opening the folder.

   Sherlock let out a muffled cry in the other room, but was otherwise still, a pale, beautiful statue, the center of his life, the man he loved. He had killed for him, followed him against all odds, grieved for him – he could save him. He would, if it was the last thing he did, he would bring him back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John said nothing; he kept looking at the older man, wondering how much it was costing him to show signs of weakness, of regret. Of course, since it was likely linked to Sherlock’s condition, he wasn’t surprised Mycroft would stoop so low as to show that he was actually capable of having feelings.

_There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding, I’m not just making conversation. There’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars._

_\- Richard Siken (Wishbone) -_

 

Sherlock had been tortured. And John would kill Mycroft, slowly, for making him read Sherlock’s medical file.

Sherlock had been tortured. More than once. And John hadn’t known about it.

He had seen torture, he had seen the tell tale physical signs on corpses, on civilians, on soldiers. He didn’t know – he couldn’t have known, couldn’t have imagined that it had happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s last brush with torture had been shortly before he came back from the dead. When they had met he was still _healing,_ the wounds must have been freshly stitched up. John had wanted to throw up, he had tasted bile in his throat, but had forced it all down, he hadn’t moved and had kept reading. Dehydratation, anemia, a punctured lung once, sprained wrists, dislocated shoulders, cigarette burns marks on his back and less recently on his thighs. He had scars and John had never seen them. He had helped Sherlock countless times, but he had always made sure he wouldn't notice the scars.

He didn't need photographs, though; it was all on paper, those were the kind of data he knew, from which he could deduce. Part of him hadn't wanted to keep reading, it had felt too private, it had felt like a breach of trust.

Sherlock was a proud, complex man and John respected that...but Mycroft had asked him to read that file and he never did things without a reason, so he had kept reading, casting glances at the man in the other room, hoping for another miracle. Sherlock had kept still, his eyes open, unfocused, his face pale, his long fingers twitching rhythmically against the sheet.

Sherlock's medical history read like a spy novel – because it had become more and more clear how much he had been involved with secret services. He had suspected that, of course, but reading the medical file was allowing him to get an even clearer picture. He could almost see a younger Sherlock being fascinated with complex puzzles, with finding clues and saving lives. According to the file it hadn't lasted long, there was a note that referenced to an highly classified file about a hospitalization in the spring of 2002, a gap in information of a few months -- and then drugs. Hashish, cocaine, opiates. Sherlock had overdosed, more than once. He knew it had been bad; he just had no clue about how bad it had really been. He wanted to go to the other room and hug Sherlock, envelope him in his arms. He wanted to throttle him for almost killing himself with that shit. Mostly he wanted to punch Mycroft in the face for making him read that file.

All the data about Sherlock, even the most upsetting things – Sherlock having a nervous breakdown and having to be kept on suicide watch for 72 hours when he was just a kid, or the time he had overdosed on Christmas eve – didn't give him any clue about the present condition. It had been the first thing he had looked for – and it had been exactly what Mycroft had told him. He didn't understand.

He closed his eyes covering his face with his hands for a moment. Maybe that had been Mycroft's way to tell him not to mess with his little brother's heart, not after everything he had been through. All he had gathered from Sherlock's medical file was how many times he had cheated death, how many times he had been hurt and had bounced back from it. He wouldn't be beaten by a bloody drug making him unresponsive! That could not happen!

"Did you read the file?" Mycroft asked making him jump. Damn, he hadn't even heard him enter the room!

"Yes. Was Sherlock MI6?" John asked.

Mycroft looked calm, he smiled and placed his mobile on the desk and said, "Yes. College had been disappointing to him"

"Boring, I bet." John said, but Mycroft didn't reply. John recalled, for a moment, their encounter with Sebastian Wikes, one of Sherlock’s college acquaintances – and he wasn’t surprised by Mycroft’s silence. Boredom must have not been Sherlock’s only problem.

"Had he wished so, he would have a brilliant career as a scientist." Mycroft started.

"But he wanted to be a pirate." John said.

"The civil service didn't care about his idiosyncrasies, they wanted the best...and he was. Despite his studies and his ability to crack codes, fieldwork was his natural milieu. He was of invaluable help. And his shortcomings were compensated by his partner." There was genuine pride in Mycroft's voice and an almost wistful look in his eyes as he sat on the chair in front of him, his hands on the umbrella’s handle, his body rigid, still.

"Wait..." John said, "Partner?" He was surprised. For some reason he had imagined Sherlock working on his own.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

He licked his lips, feeling irrationally jealous of some bloke he didn't even know.

"Yes." Mycroft said, breaking his train of thoughts,  "They were quite an effectual team. Sherlock was young and, as you can imagine, impatient and arrogant.”

“Thank God he has mellowed with age.” John deadpanned.

He looked at Sherlock again, struck – almost as if he had been physically hit – with the need to go to him, to touch him, to make sure he was real. Sherlock had tilted his head on a side, his lips parted in a small o, his gaze unfocused, a frown marring his brow. John shook his head, his mind still fighting the image of Sherlock in that condition, still refusing to acknowledge the information on his medical file, curious and afraid of what Mycroft was telling him. Christ, he felt suddenly exhausted!

“His partner,” Mycroft said, interrupting his little self-pity party, “succeeded in reigning him in, most of the times. Before Sherlock met you, Weland was the only person who ever accomplished such a task.”

_Who is Weland?_

John blinked in surprise, letting Mycroft’s words sink in; he was aware of the fact that Mycroft was observing him, gauging his reaction, but he let it slide. He was confused. If that Weland chap had been Sherlock’s partner at MI6, why had he wondered whom it was? Even high, drugged, Sherlock would not forget someone who had clearly been important to him – in whichever capacity, and no, he would _not_ focus on that, it was not the bloody moment for it! –, not Sherlock.

He shook his head, the words Mycroft had said mixing with the data from Sherlock’s medical file.

_Oh, God…_

“What happened?” John asked. Because something had happened. Mycroft wouldn’t be telling him, he wouldn’t have asked him to read the file otherwise.

_I worry about him. Constantly._

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, in what he assumed to be surprise – or approval, or some Holmesian mixture of the two – and said, “We became overconfident, sentiment had not been detrimental to their job, on the contrary, it had only made them stronger, a force to be reckoned with on the field. I cannot, you will understand, give you any specifics about the operation, as it is still highly classified, but in the late autumn of 2001 they took on a difficult assignment.” Mycroft shook his head, “Against my judgment, if I may add. Not that –”

Mycroft interrupted himself and John wondered what he had wanted to say: not that it would have made any difference? Not that it'd change what happened?

“It was a tiring, difficult time,” Mycroft said, after a moment, “Sherlock and Weland were not experienced enough –” Mycroft sounded hesitant, and John wanted to tell him that he had gotten the gist of what had happened: a mission gone awry, Sherlock hospitalized for months, Weland – God only knew what must have happened to him. John was tempted to tell Mycroft that he could get an idea of what had happened, yet he couldn’t talk.

He didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to know how much Sherlock had hurt, how much that experience had helped to mold him into the man he had met five years before – how much he had cared about that other man. He _needed_ to, though. God helped him, he needed to know.

He waited as Mycroft, who had uncharacteristically gone silent and had spent a few seconds looking at his brother, resumed talking and when he did, he sounded tired, older somehow.

“One has to make difficult choices in my position, John. I was not exempted, much as my younger self fancied himself to be above it.” Mycroft said.

John said nothing; he kept looking at the older man, wondering how much it was costing him to show signs of weakness, of regret. Of course, since it was likely linked to Sherlock’s condition, he wasn’t surprised Mycroft would stoop so low as to show that he was actually capable of having feelings.

“What did you do?” He asked in a low voice, as if Sherlock could hear him from the other room.

“I had to choose; the rescue team had been ambushed, there was only room to bring back one of them given the current situation, Sherlock had cracked the code we needed, they had been both wounded –”

“Christ…” John muttered. He had been at war, he was a soldier, he knew about shitty situations, life and death decisions taken in seconds, lives sacrificed for a greater good, but _fuck_ …

“It was the single, hardest decision of my life.” Mycroft said. And John believed him. It was impossible not to, looking at him. So many things were starting to make sense, now.

_Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments..._

John rested his back against the chair. He did not dare looking at either Mycroft or Sherlock, in the other room.

“Sherlock was hospitalized after –” John said, and there were things he wanted to ask. There were things he needed to know. He wanted to ask why Sherlock’s hospitalization file was classified, what the fuck had really happened, what Sherlock did mean with that text.

“Yes.” Mycroft’s reply was curt. He didn’t volunteer more information and John shook his head Neither man spoke and John looked at Sherlock. There was something he didn’t understand, while some things were starting to make sense, others were even more confusing.

“You talked about sentiment.” John said, breaking the silence in the room. He realized Mycroft had been looking at him and he wondered what the man was deducing about him in that moment. “Sherlock and this Weland bloke, were they…” John trailed.

He recalled how Sherlock had been during the whole Irene Adler debacle, he recalled how he had used Janine to get into Magnussen's office – and his speech during the wedding. He recalled the way Sherlock had kissed him, how he had felt how much he loved him. How lust, love, and devotion had left him breathless, stupidly in love, thirsty for more.

“Were they together?” He finally asked.

Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised by his question, he blinked his eyes for a moment, and then his face became a blank mask and John, once again, experienced a moment of irrational fear, it left him with his throat dry and his heart fluttering in his ribcage.

"No, John." Mycroft said, "Weland was not Sherlock's lover. He was our brother!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If thou be'st born to strange sights,  
> Things invisible to see,  
> Ride ten thousand days and nights,  
> Till age snow white hairs on thee,  
> Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,  
> All strange wonders that befell thee,  
>  And swear,  
>  No where  
> -John Donne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paragraphs in italics are recollections and flashbacks.

_If thou be'st born to strange sights,_

_Things invisible to see,_

_Ride ten thousand days and nights,_

_Till age snow white hairs on thee,_

_Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,_

_All strange wonders that befell thee,_

_And swear,_

_No where_

**-John Donne**

**Dublin, Ireland**

It was madness. Colin Burke didn’t understand how things could have possibly gone so wrong, so quickly. It was supposed to be easy money for him. It was supposed to be fun.

Being held at gunpoint was not fun. Definitely.

One minute they were packing and cleaning up the flat, as per the instructions they had been given, and a minute later the door had swung open and three men had come in, making a quick job of disarming them and render them inoffensive – broken bones had that effect on most people!

Now, he was not intelligence or military – he was a hacker, for Christ’s sake! As he had been trying to say to the black coated man in front of him – but even he could recognize high training when he saw it. Most of all, he knew when he was buggered! The only reason why he was still conscious and not picking up his teeth from the carpet was because he had had the presence of mind of falling to his knees with hands firmly planted behind his head.

Sheridan, one of the people recruited, had fancied himself a hero, the git! He had actually tried to attack the black coated man when he had entered the flat, after the three men had done their thing – it had been a spectacularly bad idea on Sheridan’s part; the other man had moved quickly, his black coat swirling around him, his movements efficient, seamless and Sheridan, who wasn’t the brightest bloke on his best day, had had his face smashed against a wall three times.

It was not like in the movies. There was a lot more of blood, Sheridan had convulsed on the pavement, pissing his jeans while foam came out of his mouth and he made a gurgling sound that had almost made him throw up.

The black coated man looked young; he was tall, lean, curly light brown hair slicked back, he had a goatee, piercing blue-green eyes. He didn’t look like someone who had just smashed someone’s face against a wall and hadn’t stopped doing so until the cracking sounds had satisfied him! He had delicate features, high cheekbones, a crisp white shirt, a tailor made black suit. He wore elegant, expensive leather gloves that fit his hands like a second skin, for God’s sake! He didn’t look like Vin Diesel or John Stratham… he looked harmless, he looked like a bloody teacher!

The man knelt in front of him, and when he talked his voice was soft, rich, and Colin knew he was utterly, completely buggered when the man gently helped him to his feet and said, “We need to talk!”

That’s how he had found himself bound hands and feet to a chair, by a middle aged man, while the black coated bloke looked at him.

“What’s your name?” The man asked.

“Colin Burke, sir.” Colin replied. It didn’t even enter his mind to lie to that man. He was not stupid – except when he accepted a job which promised easy money and it turned into a nightmare like that one.

“I have some questions for you, and I need you to be very forthcoming with your answers. Can you do that?” The man hadn’t raised his voice, he had knelt again in front of him, his voice soft and warm and yet Colin didn’t remember being so terrified in his life. There was something  about him, that screamed danger, a look in his eyes that told him that he was in deep trouble, and the only reason he was still breathing was because he was allowing it; and perhaps it was panic and his stupid mouth that made him speak the first thing that came up in his mind instead of nodding his head and answering to the man’s question.

“Who are you? What do you…?” He started, but his words turned into screams as pain, hot, throbbing, exploded in his hand, when the man broke his index finger. He tried to breathe through the pain, and it wasn't like in the movies, his vision was going dark, he wanted to throw up, but he was too busy screaming.

“Now, now." The man said, “Take a deep breath and let's try again! Can you answer my questions?"

Colin nodded his head. He felt like his heart was stuck in his throat, and that man, kneeling in front of him had just broken his finger and it just didn’t make sense to him! He dimly realized he was going into shock; he could feel his teeth start to chatter and tried not to.

“Who are you working for?” The man asked.

“I...” Oh, fuck...oh, bloody hell! He didn't know! He had gotten the money through offshore accounts and the instructions and tools through encrypted e-mails. Jesus, he was buggered!

“I don't know, I swear! I just hacked the servers! I never met anyone!” He said.

The man looked at him for a second and Colin prayed that he could see he was telling the truth.

"Where is your laptop?" He asked.

"Black backpack under the sofa" He said, his finger throbbed, and fighting nausea was harder than he thought.

The man's gloved hand was on his, gripping his middle finger. He turned toward the middle-aged bloke who had bound him and gestured at him to recover the backpack.

"Next question: the drug used on Sherlock Holmes." The man asked.

It had been Walsh, he had been paid a lot of money to give Sherlock Holmes the injection once he was too out of it to defend himself. He had left Dublin immediately after the fact.

"I don't know what it is exactly, it was someone else who injected him with it, I didn't do anything!"

"Does this someone else have a name?" The man asked. His voice was still soft, but even through the fog of pain and fear he could hear annoyance in it and – rage. Cold, controlled, but it had been there nevertheless.

Colin hesitated. Walsh had a wife, a baby, a mortgage that was sucking him dry; he was a good man in desperate need of money – and that man, whoever the fuck he was, was determined and angry.

He started when he felt the man's gloved hand on his face. The leather of the glove was soft and cold, his touch gentle, he looked at him for a second and said, "Listen to me, Colin: you're a good kid, I sympathise with your situation, I do. I don't particularly want to hurt you, so I'm giving you something to think about: I'm in a hurry, I need answers and your hand still has 23 bones I can break. Or I can use pliers." He turned toward the middle-aged man and asked, "Did you bring pliers?"

The man peeked up from behind the laptop screen, he was wearing glasses, his blue eyes lit up with amusement when he heard the black coated man’s question and Colin wondered if all high trained assassins? Spies? Looked harmless like those two, but were actually raging psychopaths who carried pliers and looked happy at the prospect of using them.

"Yes, sir." The man replied, "And poultry shears too."

The black coated man looked at him, "Did I make myself clear, Colin? Have you ever had your nails plucked out? I have, it hurts, believe me! It fucking hurts."

"What do you need to know?" Colin asked.

The man did not let go of the grip on his finger, but he smiled. "Everything. Starting with your laptop's password."

Colin swallowed. If that was a movie, he'd be the strong man who withstood torture and didn't break, who would quip and have a witty comeback...or who would be saved by the hero. That was not a movie, though. No one would come and save him and his pain threshold had always been rubbish. His associates were unconscious -- if not dead and he didn't want to die. Therefore, he did the only thing he could: he talked. He told the man everything he knew; everything about how Sheridan and Donnelly had spiked the water in Sherlock Holmes's building, how they had received the drug from an American man, how they were supposed to get rid of the vial and the syringe only upon leaving Dublin, Donnelly was supposed to bury it in a specific location - which he wasn't privy of -, he even told where they had kept it.

The man eventually let go of his finger and slowly stood up. He saw the man clenching his hands in closed fists against his sides, for a moment he was sure he would punch him, he wouldn't lose time breaking each and every bone of his right hand...no, he would kill him with his bare hands. It didn't last long, though; when one of the men brought back from the bathroom the empty vial and the syringe, the black coated man took a mobile phone from his pocket and sent a text.

The other three men took it as a cue to leave – and they took his laptop with them.

The man looked at him and said, "I sincerely hope you haven't forgotten anything, Colin, I hope there isn’t some vital piece of information you've withhold from me, because in that case I'll –”

"Kill me?" He asked, not because he was suddenly brave as much as because he still wasn't sure he wasn't about to die.

"No, no Colin. You will be safe in jail. I'll find your family, though." The man said.

He left the rest unspoken, giving him a smile and added, "Sit tight, operatives will be here shortly."

Colin closed his eyes. It was supposed to be easy money, fun – instead he had ended up bound to a chair, terrified by a bloody psychopath! A rich laughter made him start. God – had he talked aloud? The man didn't seem angry. He looked almost wistful, for a moment, then he said, "To think I used to be the sane one in my family."

"Who are you? You're not from the secret services, are you?" He asked, and he was simply too exhausted to be scared any more.

"I am not that kind of spook, my friend..." The man said.

Colin exhaled when the man finally left the flat. He looked at the men on the floor, bound, unconscious...it couldn't have been more than half a hour since they had barged into the flat...and he still didn't understand how things could go so fucking wrong in such a short time. He didn't know who that man was, why had he asked questions about Sherlock Holmes.

All he knew was that he felt grateful when operatives got to the flat, just a few minutes after the man had left.

They didn't scare him half as much as the black coated man had.

* * *

 

_You, whom reverend love_

_Made one another's hermitage ;_

_You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage_

_; Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes ;_

_So made such mirrors, and such spies,_

_That they did all to you epitomize—_

_Countries, towns, courts beg from above_

_A pattern of your love._

**-John Donne**

It had taken two nurses – whom to John looked more like soldiers – to make Sherlock lie down on the bed. John had been there in the room when it happened.

Mycroft’s explanation – because he would have to explain, there was no way in hell he could get away from giving him the rest of the story – had been interrupted by a text he had received. The man had actually excused himself and given him the key card to Sherlock’s room and the code to open it, before disappearing. John had been left alone, his mind still reeling, trying to wrap itself around what Mycroft had told him, holding that key card in his hand as if it burned and, for a moment, he honestly had not known what to do, what to think.

Of course there was just one thing he could do. He had gotten out of that room, his head spinning, feeling like in the hours immediately after Sherlock’s fall: numb, full of rage, immensely stupid, heartbroken. He had gotten inside Sherlock’s room, hoping that the man could feel his presence and come out of his current state, throwing the mother of all temper tantrums, and John would be angry, like when he had come back, he would be ecstatic and grateful for yet another miracle.

Sherlock hadn’t even blinked, he hadn’t moved; he had kept still, a beautiful, heartbreaking statue while Mycroft’s words and five years of life with Sherlock filled his head to the brim, so much that he had to rest against the wall for a moment to try and collect himself.

_“Before you rush to conclusions, let me clarify this: Sherlock hasn’t lied to you, he hasn’t kept this from you.” Mycroft said._

_“You don’t owe me an explanation. Neither does Sherlock.” John said._

_He was lying and Mycroft could read right through him, in fact he said, “Indeed. Nevertheless, the present situation warrants one.”_

_“So, explain.” John said._

 

Sherlock hadn’t moved even when John had taken the five steps necessary to get near the bed. John had noticed that Sherlock had indeed lost weight, the grey shirt hanging on him; he had looked almost as thin as when they had first met.

He had looked so young back then, almost childlike in his enthusiasm and energy. He had been brilliant, cynic, beautiful, an idiot and a hero. Looking back John realized that he had probably already fallen for him when he had invited him to the crime scene; the crazy hours that had followed, the chase through London, the rush of adrenaline, bewilderment, the fierce sense of protectiveness he had felt later had only sealed the deal.

“Sherlock…” He had said.

He had wanted to repeat his name, over and over, reach out and touch him, go back in time, to two weeks before and stop him from leaving. He could do none of those things. He hadn’t spoken his name again, he couldn’t move a muscle to touch him and he couldn’t undo the past. He had only stared at Sherlock, close enough to touch him and unable to.

_“In hindsight I realize that allowing two siblings to work together was a mistake. I knew, intellectually, that it could be disastrous. They had both exceeded my expectations, though, and I believe we became overconfident. We took precautions to avoid certain circumstances, Weland could reign Sherlock in, he protected him.” Mycroft hesitated before adding, “They protected each other.”_

_Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were on Sherlock, his face never betraying any emotion, any feeling as he said, “We lost contact with them for eighteen hours. We knew where they were, of course – but we could not access their location. Too remote, too hostile. By the time our infiltrate operative could access them, Sherlock had bore the brunt of the interrogation. They both had been wounded. They managed their escape but when they reached the appointed rendez vouz point the rescue team wasn't there, yet."_

 

John had noticed the goosebumps on Sherlock’s neck. He had hesitated before moving, but then he saw the man shivering. He had noticed that the room they were in was indeed cold or maybe he had just been shivering in sympathy, he couldn’t tell for sure; he had taken the duvet from the foot of the bed and carefully, trying not to startle Sherlock he had draped it around his shoulders, avoiding to touch the IV tubes.

For a moment, when Sherlock had looked at him, he had been sure, positive that he had seen him, that he had somehow acknowledged his presence in the room. He had not, his hands had clenched and unclenched against the sheet and he had made a sound, low in his throat – one that John had hoped never to hear again, full of anguish, of fear.

_"Our infiltrate had provided them with a satellite phone and a couple of guns. It was of the utmost importance that Sherlock survived. He had broken the code we needed — Lives depended on that piece of information. He was in dire need of medical attention."_

 

"I should have told you..." John had whispered, he hadn’t dared to touch Sherlock, he had no idea about what his reaction could possibly be, so he had had to force his body still, while he had talked, "I should have told you after we..." He had clenched his jaw and added, "I said to myself that if I had gotten another chance, that if you gave me one more miracle I would tell you...but I never did."

 

_"The rescue team had been ambushed, they could only bring back one of them." Mycroft said and looked at him._

_And for the first time since they had met John felt genuine sorry for him, yet the tone of his voice came out harsh when he said, "And you chose Sherlock."_

_"Eventually, yes. We tried other options, but we were running out of time. Unlike what Sherlock thinks, I am not immune to sentiment, John. I didn't want to sacrifice either of my siblings if it could be helped."_

 

"Even now, talking is difficult." John said.

He opened his mouth to continue, but had been interrupted when the two nurses had gotten into the room. He had stepped back and watched as one of them had checked Sherlock's vitals, writing the results down on a pad – Sherlock was not hooked to any machine – while the other had changed his IV, injecting something else in it. He had asked what they were doing, what they were injecting him with, but he hadn't gotten a response from them; the nurses had kept acting as if he hadn't even been in the room.

Sherlock had reacted when one of the nurses had tried to make him lay down on the bed; he had lashed out, trashing on the bed, letting out another one of those low, guttural noises that had torn away that numbness that had descended over John ever since Mycroft had started talking and had prompted him to move, to act.

_“When it became clear that there was only one viable option, Weland and I decided on a course of action. Sherlock was to be rescued first; we would send another rescue team for him as soon as feasible. I did not know the extent of Weland’s injuries, but he had assured me he could wait…that Sherlock needed to be rescued first.” There were things Mycroft wasn’t telling him, of course._

_John could only imagine – actually, he really couldn’t. He could not imagine to be put in that position; he couldn’t imagine having to make that kind of choice and having to live with it, after. Mycroft was looking at Sherlock, he kept looking at his brother even when he said, “The rescue team managed to bring Sherlock to safety. I was told later that he put up quite a strong fight despite his conditions, not to leave.”_

_John had no troubles believing that, he knew firsthand how the self-professed sociopath could love; he knew how deeply he cared. And he didn’t know whether to hate Mycroft for what he was telling him, for what he had – unwillingly – done to Sherlock …or be grateful for telling him, for having saved his brother’s life._

He was by Sherlock’s side in a heartbeat, his hands on the man’s shoulders, making it all real – the last few hours, the days before that spent in a constant state of fear and worry, the days before that, when he had missed Sherlock and regretted not having told him how much he loved him. 

Sherlock kept trashing, in the throes of what it looked like catatonic agitation – it wasn’t catatonia, it was something else, something as insidious and potentially fatal, though – and John could only try and prevent the man from hurting himself, he could only talk to him, hoping the sound of his voice somehow reached him, calmed him down. 

“I’m here, Sherlock. You’re safe, no one is going to touch you, I promise!” John kept repeating, over and over, his hands never leaving his body as the two nurses finally managed to make him lay down on the bed. 

That’s how he had found himself holding Sherlock’s hand, sitting on a chair, while the man kept staring at a wall. And it had felt natural, he hadn’t even cared about the two nurses and what they might think, he hadn’t even noticed them leaving the room. 

All that had mattered had been how, slowly but surely Sherlock had calmed down, he had even stopped clenching his hands, his lips moved, forming words and John had spent minutes trying to decipher what he was trying to say.

_ Wieder bricht Dunkel herein - doch weiß ich es nun  _

_ (The darkness drops again; but now I know )  _

 

Sherlock was speaking in German and he had no idea about what he was saying, he could only hold the man’s hand, feeling powerless. 

_ “The rescue team left, five minutes after the helicopter took off there was an explosion. The rendez vouz point had been discovered and bombed.” Mycroft’s voice sounded hollow, “Sherlock did witness the explosion, as I did.” He added.  _

_ John didn’t talk. What was he supposed to say anyway? He could only offer silence to Mycroft, he had the feeling Mycroft would not appreciate any sympathy or coddling. Sherlock had seen his brother die.  _

_ And things still didn’t make sense. Sherlock’s text, Mycroft’s words. The note in his medical file, his present condition. He didn’t even understand, not completely, why Mycroft, knowing how proud and guarded Sherlock was, had allowed him to know so much.  _

_ He was trying so hard to understand, going back with his mind to every conversation, every moment spent with Sherlock – and he had never, not once, mentioned having had another brother.  _

_ “He never told me any of this…” John said in a low voice, more to himself than to Mycroft. “I mean – I suspected that he had ties to secret services, but I had assumed he was –”  _

_ “The semantics of his current role are unimportant, John.” Mycroft said.  _

_ “So, after all, he is Queen and Country –” John said, shaking his head in disbelief.  _

_ Mycroft shook his head no. “I’m afraid he lost that idealism a long time ago, John. He still sees himself as a dragon slayer, though – that will never change.“ _

_ Mycroft stopped talking, swallowing and casting a brief glance at Sherlock. _

_ “I don’t understand, Mycroft –” John said, “He asked me who Weland was. I read his toxicology scan report, he had been drugged, he was probably hallucinating, but why would he ask me about his brother?” _

 

Sherlock’s hand was warm now; it had been cold when John had taken his hand. John kept holding it, his head bent as he kept thinking about the conversation he had had with Mycroft before the text had interrupted him. 

“I needed to move on, you know?” John said, without looking at Sherlock. “Grief was driving me crazy. I had to move on; it was either that or blowing my head off.” 

He had never said it aloud. Sure, he had lived through it – more like sleepwalked, numb with grief, his mind a constant loop of Sherlock falling off from that rooftop, his blood everywhere, words unspoken and an almost childlike prayer of: _make it stop or kill me. Make it stop or end me. I can’t go on like that._ – But he had never admitted aloud how bloody close he had been to die. 

“I didn’t want to. It felt like cheating.” John continued.  He didn’t even know why he was telling Sherlock, now that he couldn’t reply, that he couldn’t find any fault in his logic, that he couldn’t tell him his side of the story. 

“She listened to me, she was –” John trailed. _Sent by your brother to protect me? A raging psychopath who couldn’t shoot you in the fucking knee and had to aim at the heart? A liar? The mother of my unborn child? The woman I am spying on?_   “But when you came back,” He said, instead, “I thought that I could have you both. That I could be safe.” 

Even then, while holding Sherlock’s hand, he couldn’t tell the man how much he had wanted Sherlock to kiss him, during his stag night; how much it had been like old times, how free and himself had felt. Alcohol had loosened his inhibitions and he had stared at Sherlock freely, thinking about how much he wanted to kiss that man, to just crawl on his lap and taste his skin, mark him, make him his had been paramount in his mind. He could not tell him, not in that room, not when things were still so complicated. He couldn’t do that to Sherlock. Not when he wasn’t even sure he could hear him.

_ “Why indeed.” Mycroft said. _

_ And Jesus, would it kill Mycroft to be less of a complete dick for once? He knew it wasn’t fair. The man had just told him about having watched one of his brothers die in an explosion. He had had to make a choice and it wasn’t surprising that Sherlock still held a grudge. _

_ “Why are you telling me all of this, Mycroft? There is a reason if Sherlock never told me.”  _

_ “I told you, John – he hasn’t kept this from you. Well, I suppose he has kept some information: his work as a field agent, his hospitalization –” _

_ John shook his head, “Please, don’t play games – not now.”  _

_ “My brother cannot tell you what he himself doesn’t remember.” Mycroft said.  _

“What did you see, Sherlock?” John asked, “What happened? I’m trying to make sense of what your brother told me, but this is crazy!” 

Sherlock of course didn’t reply, he just gripped tightly John’s hand, his mouth forming words, even though no sound came out. 

“I just want you to know that whatever it is, whatever you saw – whatever happened in Dublin, you won’t have to face the consequences alone. Not this time.” 

“Commendable.” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him. 

He had heard the swish of the door opening; he just had been too focused on Sherlock to care. He turned and looked at him, he was not alone, the dark haired doctor he had briefly met when he had arrived was with him. 

“Doctor Campbell, this is doctor John Watson, my brother's..." Mycroft trailed looking at him.

"Partner." John said. Funny how he had spent years saying to everyone who would listen that he was not gay, not in a relationship with Sherlock, but he hadn't even hesitated now. 

He shot a glance at Mycroft who had arched an eyebrow at his words. He had caught the hesitancy in the older man, and seen it for what it was: a little test, right after he had been made privy of Sherlock's past.

_Did I pass your little test, you bastard?_ He tried to communicate with his eyes. 

Mycroft did not comment on his words, he just went on introducing him to Dr. Campbell and updating him on the most recent developments. 

"The men responsible for both Moriarty's message and for drugging Sherlock have been apprehended –" Mycroft said, "We'll come into possession of the drug used on Sherlock within a hour or so. Doctor Campbell will, meanwhile, run other tests on Sherlock." 

John nodded. There was an edge to Mycroft's voice, something had changed, something that was setting all John's instinct as a soldier on alert. 

He would ask Mycroft about what the hell was going on and what exactly had he meant with his remark about Sherlock not remembering, but that would have to wait; he needed to talk to doctor Campbell; he needed to understand what he hadn't read in Sherlock's file. 

Doctor Campbell looked young; he had probably served in the army, at least judging by how he carried himself. Mycroft had indeed chosen the chief experts in the field and he had confirmation when the doctor started to answer his questions and explain, in painstaking details, Sherlock's prognosis. 

Doctor Campbell's main concern was the possible neurological damage Sherlock could sustain if his condition did not improve. They had run test to determine which kind of drug had been used on Sherlock to cause his condition, but so far their attempts had been fruitless. John asked questions, made suggestions, telling the doctor about their experience at Baskerville; Doctor Campbell looked at Mycroft, his blue eyes sharp and focused on the older man for a moment and then told John that he had been informed, and the tests he had run had taken into consideration all kind of drugs and chemical agents. 

Doctor Campbell seemed to hesitate for a moment, he cast another glance at Mycroft who imperceptibly nodded and then asked, "How much do you know about Mr. Holmes's medical history?"

"I am his physician..." John started. 

Doctor Campbell interrupted him saying, "How much do you know about his psychiatric and neurological history?" 

The tone of his voice was kind and John didn't like it. He knew that tone...God knew whether he had used it enough to know what it meant. 

"Not much..." John admitted.

Doctor Campbell had excellent bedside manners, he tried to break it down gently, but the gist of what he said was clear: the more Sherlock was in that state, the more things could get complicated, especially since his condition was drug induced.

"He has spoken in German." John said.

"What did he say?" The doctor asked.

John shook his head. He had no idea; he could only repeat some of the German words he had recognized. 

The doctor wrote something down, but John noticed how Mycroft had blinked. Did he know what Sherlock had said? His musings were interrupted by two orderlies who got into the room to wheel Sherlock’s bed outside; Sherlock didn’t react to the sudden movement, he had his hands on his lap, his gaze unfocused, a deep frown marred his brow. 

John watched him being wheeled away, doctor Campbell in tow; he wanted to go with them, wanted to be there when they’d run tests on Sherlock, but Mycroft stopped him, the elder Holmes stopped him before he even had a chance to talk, to move. 

“You need to go back to your wife, John.” Mycroft said. 

“She is not my –” John started, but had to close his mouth. He could not voice that thought aloud, not even to Mycroft. Not if he wanted to go on with that stupid charade. “Why? You sent Sherlock away on a suicide mission anyway!” He said instead. 

“I’ll walk you outside…” Mycroft said, and John could recognize an order when he heard it. 

He had no choice but to follow the man outside the room, Mycroft did not talk while they walked down the hallway, he did not talk in the elevator, he didn’t say a word on their way to the car, only when did they get inside Mycroft said, “Arrangements had already been made. One needs to be creative when dealing with Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Did he know?” John asked. 

Mycroft shook his head no, then said, “I sacrificed a sibling to my country, I was not to do that again.”

“Speaking of – what did you mean with what you said about Sherlock? How can he not remember his own brother?”

Even as he said it, John couldn’t help thinking about Sherlock’s mind palace, to the way he had described his mind once as an hard drive. Surely he wouldn’t have deleted his own brother! 

“What did he do?” He asked. 

Mycroft looked at him; when he had first met Mycroft Holmes he hadn’t found him particularly intimidating, even later when he had started to understand how powerful the man in front of him really was, he had never been intimidated. For the first time since he had met him, John glimpsed how utterly dangerous Mycroft Holmes could really be. 

“This is a delicate matter, John. Understand that if you choose to know, you will have to keep it a secret, from Sherlock above all.” 

John shook his head. He was genuinely confused. What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

“What happened in 2002?” He asked. “Why are his records classified?” 

He was sure, positive, that Sherlock’s hospitalization had something to do with his brother, with his apparent amnesia – and since his previous psychiatric history caused some concerns in the doctors, it was linked to what was going on at the moment. He needed to know.

“To avoid Sherlock finding them should he start looking for clues.” Mycroft said. 

“What did he do?” John asked again. 

“One cannot delete sentiment, John – one cannot avoid heartbreak and loss. Sherlock found a way to hide it all, in his mind palace.” 

_There is a locked door in my mind palace. No handle, no keyhole, no key. I do not remember ever seeing that door, creating the room behind it or its content. Will update with more information about this_.

“Why?” John asked. The words of Sherlock’s text springing in his mind, loud and clear. 

“You have grieved, John. You know why…” Mycroft said.  He sounded oddly defensive of his brother’s choice. 

Yes, John could understand why. Part of him would have given anything to stop hurting so much, to stop seeing Sherlock’s lifeless body in a pool of his own blood, to stop hearing his voice, nasal with tears, asking him to keep his eyes fixed on him. He hadn’t, of course.

That was just not possible…eventually he had had to learn to live again, however badly he had done. 

“Oh, God…” John said in a low voice as realization hit him.

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, imagine what it can do to a brain like my brother’s. He was younger and he had never dealt well with loss and heartbreak.” Mycroft said. 

John knew what trauma could do to someone’s brain. He still lived it; still felt it on his skin and in his dreams, years after. Sherlock -- had found a way to survive, he supposed; a dysfunctional, stupid way, but one nonetheless. 

“He had refused to acknowledge my presence; he had refused to talk to me for weeks. He called for me, one day, he told me what his plan was – and given his precarious state of mind at the time, when he asked me to act accordingly, I acquiesced. We all did.” 

“What did you do?” John asked. 

“I acted accordingly, like Weland had never existed.” Mycroft replied. 

John looked at the window. It was dawning; he didn’t know how long it had been since he had received the texts from Sherlock. He had left the flat without giving any explanation, he honestly felt like he had fallen down the rabbit hole. 

“He asked me about Weland. He said he saw a familiar face in a crowd. Is he remembering? Was he hallucinating?” John asked without looking at Mycroft. 

“I don’t know. I know that someone is using Sherlock’s mobile phone to send me texts. Someone who is continuing Sherlock’s investigation, apparently.”

“And you want me to go home to my wife.” John said.

Mycroft nodded. He wasn’t telling him everything. He was sure Mycroft had a plan, a course of action in mind, one he had chosen not to share with him, yet. He had told him about Sherlock’s past, though – and John was confused. 

“Why are you telling me all of this?” John asked. 

“Something happened to him while in Dublin that made him see things, prompted him to search his mind palace, something distracting enough not to make him notice what was being done to him. Sherlock has _never_ hallucinated about his brother, ever.”

“Do you think someone found out about what happened? One of your enemies, maybe?” John asked. To think he used to believe people didn’t have arch-nemesis. That had been before he had been used as Sherlock’s pressure point by raging psychopaths like Moriarty or arseholes like Magnussen. 

“No. Moriarty would have exploited that knowledge had he known. No one knows, believe me I have made sure of that.” Mycroft said. “Nevertheless yours is a somewhat valid option.”

“But not the only one.” John said. 

“Not as such. No. You need to go back to your wife, John.” Mycroft said.

John nodded. Mycroft seemed satisfied and opened the car’s door, but stopped when John spoke. “You know?” He said, “There is another option. It’s probably stupid, but…” John trailed, it _was_ probably stupid – and crazy, but life with Sherlock Holmes had taught him to expect the unexpected. 

“Well?” Mycroft asked, breaking his train of thoughts.

“Did you ever find Weland’s body?” John asked. 

Mycroft’s silence was all the answer he needed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew each and every corner of his mind palace, all the rooms, even the ones where he never set foot in or, at least, he had believed he did.   
> It was upsetting; even now he couldn't remember – why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: things in italics and between tildes are recollections and things that trickle through Sherlock's mind from the outside.   
> Sorry for the delay in updating. Teacher training is sucking my soul away:)

  _“I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,_

_couldn’t do it anyway,_

_just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made_

_any sense, anything._

_And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I_

_wake up and you’re still dead.”_

— **Richard Siken** , from _Straw House, Straw Dog_

 

The door was huge. It reminded Sherlock of a bank’s vault. It was a black, thick door. There was no handle of any kind, no keyhole. The door had been hidden behind a wall, like a secret passage that lead nowhere. There was no key of any kind to get in, he had looked for it, he had fruitlessly searched his mind palace everywhere for a key. He vaguely recalled stumbling into that finding by accident, prompted by curiosity.

Finding that door had surprised Sherlock as he genuinely didn’t remember having created a room, warded by such a door and having then hidden it. He knew each and every corner of his mind palace, all the rooms, even the ones where he never set foot in or, at least, he had believed he did. It was upsetting; even now he couldn't remember – why?

"I think you have some more pressing matters to focus on.” The voice behind him said. It was the man he had seen outside his building – but he wasn't wearing a coat, he wasn't dressed sharply; he was wearing faded jeans, boots and a tattered, bloodied shirt, his left eye was swollen shut, his nose broken, every visible patch of skin counted bruises and cuts.

Tatters of his shirt had been used as makeshift bandages for his fingers, the tatters were drenched with blood and droplets were falling on the pavement. It didn’t take a genius to understand that the man in front of him had been tortured – it would serve no purpose whatsoever to deduce what had been done to him, how and by whom, furthermore because it was not real, he was in his mind palace and he did not know that man.

"You look terrible." Sherlock said.

“And fuck you too!” The man replied with a grin, but Sherlock _knew_ it was just a show of bravery (for his sake. The man was worried about _him…_ and that didn’t even feel like a deduction, what it was then?)

“Why are you wasting your time with a bloody door?” The man asked.

“Because I don’t understand.” Sherlock replied. “Because that is not right!”

“You are locked in a psychiatric hospital with no way out, but a bloody door is not right? Seriously?” The man sounded incredulous and frustrated. A tone of voice that struck Sherlock as familiar.

_~“Did you just tell to one of our captors that he has daddy issues?”_

_“It distracted him, didn’t it?”_

_“I don’t know, mate, he seemed awfully focused while he was kicking you arse.” ~_

Sherlock blinked; it was a recollection, sound bites of a dialogue with a man – the man in front of him, the bloodied man who had been tortured – but it had been like hearing sound bites from the radio, there were no images, no recollections, just the man’s voice (tired, hurt, worried, brave) and his own. Fact was – he did remember antagonizing a captor, on his last mission for MI6, but he had been alone, buying time, trying not to cough up blood and waiting for just the right moment to try to escape.

He closed his eyes, resting his hand against the iron door: it was icy cold, impenetrable and Sherlock still had no idea about how to open it. He had tried to create a keyhole, handles, but they simply disappeared.

“Move on, then…try to remember how you have been drugged. Solve it, Sherlock!” John said.

He opened his eyes. The man had disappeared; John was in front of him, now.

“Ask yourself why Mycroft isn’t looking for you. Why _I_ am not looking for you.” He wasn’t in the hallway any more, they were inside Angelo’s, the restaurant was empty, John was looking at him worriedly.

“Why can’t you put together the pieces?” John asked, “It’s what you do.”

There was something off, something he could not place, something that was stopping him from putting the pieces together, from having a clear insight into what was really going on.

“Stop taking things at face value. It is not what you do, Sherlock!" John’s voice was close, and Sherlock was surprised realizing how close the other man had gotten. That was unprecedented.

His mind palace wasn’t usually the place where John Watson was so close to him, prompting muscle memory and emotional connection to cloud his intellect. For a moment, though, he couldn’t help but looking at the man, feeling centered, feeling more like himself.

“You need to observe, Sherlock.” John said, his body impossibly closer, his mind was supplying so many details about John that it was almost as if the man was really there. He felt John’s hands on his shoulders and had to close his eyes for a moment.

He should not give in to those feelings, he was supposed to find answers…but John’s touch felt real, more so than the bleak hospital bedroom with those neon lights and no windows. He opened his eyes and frowned when he realized they were in a flat – it reminded him of one of the places he had lived in before moving to Baker Street and yet it was different: there were items he recognized from the past: books, an old duvet he had had when he was in college, his microscope, a violin– and John’s belongings; he recognized those.

Where the hell was he, now?

"Your mind is fraying at the edges right now." John said and Sherlock looked with an odd sense of detachment as blood bloomed on the white shirt John was wearing, right above the heart.

"You need to observe, Sherlock." John said, taking a step toward him, the red stain on his shirt getting unnaturally big. John had never been shot to the heart, he had. "Separate the fabrications from the truth – or you'll never get out." John hissed, there was urgency in his voice.

" _Grief was driving me crazy. I had to move on; it was either that or blowing my head off._ ” It was John's voice, overlapping with what John was telling him.

John had never been shot in that flat, he had never told him what he had just heard.

"You need to..."

_~"Keep your eyes open, Sherlock!" The voice was trying hard not to show panic, but Sherlock could hear it clearly._

_Blood, he had lost blood-- and some of it was stagnating inside himself. He was bleeding internally; perhaps it was a punctured lung, his skin felt like it was going to burst into flames._

_Pain and fever were running high in his body, making him weak._

_"Don't you dare closing your eyes now, Sherlock!" The voice pleaded. ~_

  It felt like an earthquake, the floor of his mind palace shook and Sherlock grasped John as they both fell. The flat around them was shattering, like glass, and Sherlock didn't even realize he had been shielding John's body with his until the body underneath his disappeared.

“You are very slow.” Mary said.

Sherlock slowly got up; the Serbian holding cell around him was smaller, more bleak than the one he had actually been held and tortured in. There were some differences, they were subtle (a double set of manacles, a cheap wooden table in a corner, knives and shears on it, dried blood staining the tools.) He couldn’t see Mary, but she was there, hidden in the shadows created by the naked light bulbs projecting weak light in the room.

“You used to be so good, Sherlock. Now you are just weak.” Mary said, stepping out from the shadows, wearing the clothes she had been wearing the night she had shot him.

There, in his own mind, Sherlock didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to protect John, he could see Mary for what she was, he could _resent_ her. Mary smiled taking a step toward him. “You know? You can hate me all you want, I don’t care!" She trailed a hand down her pregnant belly. “You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

She shortened the distance between them and said, “You gave me John.”

“I didn’t know.” Sherlock said. And he didn’t know what he was referring to: Mary’s past or John’s feelings for him.

“No, I don’t suppose you did. You lied to him, though.” Mary said.

Sherlock couldn’t move: the manacles were clasped around his wrists and ankles now.

“I didn’t do it for you!” Sherlock said, “It was for John…”

 

_~“Which part of shut up and stop pissing them off did you miss, Sherlock?”_

_“I’m buying time.”_

_“Time for what? We’re buggered, just try not to get yourself killed!”_

_“I fail to see the logic in your argument. If we are buggered…”_

_“Just shut up and do as I say, Christ – don’t try to save me!”_

_“May I suggest the same?”~_

 

He felt it again, the walls and the floor beneath him shaking, but unlike with John, Mary didn’t disappear. She kept staring at him, challenging him with her eyes. “You’re getting there, but it won’t change anything, I think.” She said.

“John doesn’t love you!” Sherlock blurted out. It was not what he had meant to say, he hadn’t meant to sound childish or petty, but he could not control his voice, his body or his own bloody mind palace, apparently!

Mary shrugged, “Nevertheless he has chosen me. Twice.” She said and she was wearing her wedding dress, now. She smiled at him while grazing the manacles he was bound to with a finger, “He chose me after I shot you. He will still choose me _if_ you come back.”

Sherlock smiled. On one thing Mary was right: he had been slow. He had been distracted. He had not _observed_ – just like John had reminded him.

_You…it’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right!_

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked.

Mary smiled, “Oh, we are finally getting somewhere. Keep going, Sherlock…” she said.

Mary closed the distance between them,~ her white dress was drenched with blood now, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his forehead, “I truly am sorry, Sherlock – I never wanted this.” she whispered against his face.

He felt something pierce his chest, he didn’t feel pain, he was too aware of the fact that he was dreaming to; nevertheless he looked down, frowning when he saw the blade protruding from his chest. When he looked up he was in front of the iron door, again. He touched the door, noticing the trail of blood he was leaving on it.

He took a step back and he could feel the wound in his abdomen throbbing and yet, the door kept bleeding.

It was a dream, he reminded himself. It was just a dream.

“But what happens when you wake up? And while we are on the subject – why _aren’t_ you waking up?” Mary said behind him.

Sherlock could _feel_ the layers of the dream tearing, one by one, yet he was still looking at the iron door and the blood on it, Mary was by his side, her presence now evanescent, but her voice was surprisingly still clear, vibrant when, looking at the door, she said, “I wonder what you might have wanted to hide so carefully. So thoroughly. Give it a thought one of these days, Sherlock Holmes. _If_ you wake up.”

* * *

 

_ My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,  _

_ And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;  _

_ Where can we find two better hemispheres,  _

_ Without sharp north, without declining west? _

_ Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;  _

_ If our two loves be one, or, thou and _

_ I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die _

\- **John Donne** ( _The Good-Morrow_ ) 

 

He had thought that falling asleep would be hard. John had believed it would be like after Sherlock had fallen, when sleep kept eluding him for days on end. He should have known better, it had felt like it had in the past, back in Afghanistan, when his body just shut down, needing the respite that sleep could provide. 

The dreams had come – the memory of Sherlock’s lifeless body on the pavement, the red of his blood blooming on the white of his shirt, the sound of the ecg machine announcing that his heart had stopped beating; Baker Street, empty and silent, a shell of what it had been, Sherlock silent and unmoving, the clothes too big for him, staring at the wall in a hospital room, Mary shooting him, over and over and John, running and running, unable to stop any of that from happening except for the blood on his hands. Yet, John would have traded all the images his subconscious threw at him, a thousand times over, not to be awoken by his mobile phone ringing. 

It had been like hearing gunshots going off around him, he had been immediately, completely awake, torn away from his dreams and flung into reality, the one in which Sherlock’s condition was worsening and Mycroft told him that a car would pick him up in ten minutes. 

His left leg had kind of given out when he had sprung from the bed, he had limped to the bathroom, feeling an odd sense of detachment from everything: his body, his mind, his heart. The cold water from the shower had rid him from the numbness, it had left him shaking, the few clipped words Mycroft had told him on the phone echoing in his mind. 

Mary was cooking when he got in the kitchen; she was silent, John didn’t actually remember whether she had asked him questions when he had come home, just a few hours before. He didn’t remember whether they had talked at all. John noticed that she looked tired, had she waited up for him? The silence between them was heavy and John didn’t have it in him to pretend, to make casual conversation. 

Mary handed him a cup of tea and her voice was carefully neutral when she said,  "I heard your mobile ringing." 

"It was Mycroft." John said, and of course Mary didn't react in any way to his words, not that he had expected it – she must really have been good at her job. If he didn’t know the truth (parts of it, the ones that allowed him to still live under the same roof with her, at least) he would have never suspected that Mycroft had hired her to protect him. 

"How is Sherlock?" She asked and God, he hated the concern in her voice, he hated that he almost believed her, he hated that he couldn't tell if she was lying. Mary took a step toward him, and John couldn't help flinching. 

He was sure that the hurt that flashed into Mary's eyes was genuine, but he couldn't muster enough strength to care, he set the mug on the table and said, "Not good."

He didn't remember exactly what he had told Mary when he had come back, something vague about Sherlock being wounded, probably. 

"How..." She trailed and John was glad she didn't finish her sentence, he doubted he would be able to keep up that bloody stupid facade if she had. He was grateful for the knocking on the door, he attempted a reassuring smile, but it felt like a grimace on his lips. 

Mary's smile was reassuring, and John for a moment wished she would just drop the act, instead she said, "Is there anything I can do?"

Another knock at the door, John could hear the clock on the wall ticking and, for a moment, he wanted to tell her that she had done enough. For a moment John hated her so much that he literally couldn’t breathe and maybe it was clear on his face, because Mary said, "Never mind..."

He could not let the facade drop, though. There was a reason if Mycroft had asked him to come back to Mary a few hours earlier, even if he could not understand it; therefore he mumbled an apology, he placed a chaste kiss on her cheek and left the kitchen.

"I really am sorry, you know?" Mary said behind him.

He hadn't even heard her move. John didn't turn, didn't look at her when he said, "Yes, I know." 

But he didn't know. He wasn't sure she could be sorry, he didn't know whether she even knew how to _feel._ What was worst? He wasn't sure he cared any more. 

* * *

 

 

_  This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my  _

_ longing,  _

_ and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!  _

_ Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,  _

_ what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not  _

_ drowned!  _

** Pablo Neruda  **

 

Sherlock became aware of his body inch by inch, feeling the leather of the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, the stinging on his face, his chapped lips and hoarse throat. It took some effort to open his eyes, when he eventually did he spotted immediately doctor Clive's face, he was standing in front of him, at the foot of his bed, his clothes were rumpled, he had clearly slept in them, his eyes were alert... ...and he looked angry. 

"What happened?" He asked. He was surprised when his voice didn't come out as a hoarse whisper. 

"You don't remember?" The doctor asked. 

"I wouldn't be asking if I did." Sherlock replied.  Given the fact that he was bound to the bed – and a swift look at his surroundings informed him that he had been moved to another, even bleaker room – he could deduce that he might have experienced another "episode", but he didn't remember anything. 

"I was in the bathroom." Sherlock said.

"Yes. And you smashed your head against a wall." Doctor Clive said. 

He sounded disappointed and Sherlock was surprised realizing that the doctor felt disappointed with himself, mostly. "I don't remember." Sherlock said. Not only didn't he remember, but he couldn't believe a single word the doctor was saying. The doctor was still talking, but Sherlock had stopped listening. Upon waking up he had immediately felt that something was different, it had taken a couple of minutes to realize what, exactly, had been out of place; it was the lack of smells everywhere in the room, on himself and on the doctor.

It was upsetting, in a way, not being able to rely on one of his senses, it only added on the feeling of unreality he had been experiencing ever since he had first woken up in one of those rooms. The doctor had stopped talking, he was observing him and Sherlock shot him a look. 

“I’m not the enemy, Mr. Holmes, I want to help you.” The doctor said. 

Sherlock still didn’t talk. He knew that whatever he said it would not help him, it would only further the doctor’s belief that he was crazy, that he had lost his mind – he would not believe his words. He turned his head, looking at a wall and it was then he smelled it; it was faint at first, but it soon became impossible to ignore as it was the only thing he could smell in the room: John. 

It was the unmistakable mixture of aftershave, tea, warmth that Sherlock associated with John Watson and it was there, in the room, surrounding him. It was the only _real_ thing in that room as far as Sherlock was concerned. But it wasn't the only smell; he could smell Mycroft's expensive cologne, the faint traces of soap and strong tea. He turned his head, following the trail and couldn't help a frown of surprise when he saw John and Mycroft; they were behind doctor Clive, talking to a tall, dark haired man. 

He had troubles hearing what they were saying, but he could make out some of the words the doctor was saying, "organ failure", "high blood pressure", "...running out of time" He could see the three men as clearly as he could see his own bound hand against the rail of the bed. Everyone in his mind palace and in his dream had told him to observe, John had asked him not to take things at face value -- and Sherlock was starting to see what they meant: he was not crazy, he did not hallucinate a whole alternate life, John and Mycroft were alive. 

He was not having an hallucination in that moment ; if anything, the room he was in, with its grey walls, the weak light, the complete lack of smells felt unreal. There was definitely something wrong, out of place. He had believed it was someone's clever way to neutralize him, and part of him still did -- but there was something else. Doctor Clive was looking at him; he could feel the man's stare on him. 

When he turned to look at him there was curiosity and worry in the older man's eyes.

"How long have I been in this room?" Sherlock asked. He needed the doctor. He needed the older man to trust him, to believe him. He could still see and smell John and Mycroft. He could deduce them, see their lack of sleep, their worry, John’s frustration – Mycroft was hiding something from John – but he chose to ignore them and focused on the doctor’s face. 

“Two days.” The doctor replied, “We had to sedate you. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left you alone!” 

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man, he gave him his best contrite look instead and said, “I really do not remember, doctor Clive. You said you are not the enemy.” 

“I’m not.” The doctor said. 

John and Mycroft behind the doctor had faded, but Sherlock could still smell them, it anchored him, gave him purpose. 

“I think I need your help.” Sherlock said. 

He felt it. Felt the tremors starting from his legs, the leather bounds chafing his skin, felt blood on his lips, his skin tingling, like pin and needles piercing his skin simultaneously and then… 

And then there was only darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
> Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  
> For nothing now can ever come to any good.  
> \- W. H. Auden

_Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;_

_Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood._

_For nothing now can ever come to any good._

- **W. H. Auden**

“Are you saying that he is dying?” John asked. He was not a doctor or a soldier. Not in that moment. His mind was refusing to acknowledge, to _understand_ the words doctor Campbell had just said. He had to ask, though, even if he feared the answer because he already knew it, even if he could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him and doctor Campbell studied him for a moment.

“We need to lower his body temperature and stabilize his blood pressure, this is our priority right now. It should buy us some time.” Doctor Campbell said after a moment. He wasn’t answering his question which, he supposed, was an answer in itself. He felt it, even before turning: Sherlock was looking at him. He was really there, his eyes were zeroing on him, intelligence and awareness sparkling in them and John felt like he could finally breath past the lump in his throat.

Sherlock was back, despite what Doctor Campbell had said, despite his own medical knowledge according to which things were _bad_ . Sherlock tilted his head on a side and John moved. He smiled , but the smile died on his lips when he noticed the tremors in Sherlock's hands. It started slowly, and John could only watch as the first seizure hit him. He acted on instinct, his medical training taking over, and doctor Campbell was right: they needed to break Sherlock's fever, he was burning up, but John kept holding him as doctor Campbell and a nurse who had burst into the room dealt with the seizure.

It seemed to go on forever, and John wished it was fear tampering with his perception of time. No such luck, though; he had been a doctor for far too long and he couldn’t stop being one, not even when he could feel panic clawing at his insides. Because Sherlock could deduce whole lives literally with a look, he could solve decades old crimes thanks to mud or ash, but John knew human body, he knew his job, he knew exactly what Sherlock’s body was going through, even if it was artificially induced – and he was scared.

It was more than fear, actually. It was like being sucker punched and John could only hold Sherlock, while he would gladly rip to shreds whoever had done that to Sherlock. Eventually the seizures grinded to a halt; Sherlock went lax against the mattress, his face too pale; he exhaled, making a raspy sound which threatened to bring John to his knees, because it was the exact same noise Sherlock had made in the ambulance the night he had collapsed in their sitting room in Baker Street – and his heart had indeed stopped beating on the way to the ambulance, just like he had anticipated. He didn’t even have the strength to protest when the nurses unceremoniously pushed both Mycroft and he outside the room – because Sherlock’s heart had stopped beating.

His shoulder brushed against Mycroft and he spared a glance at the older man, whose face held a carefully blank expression – except that he suddenly blinked, once, twice, while doctor Campbell – David, his mind stupidly supplied – worked to revive Sherlock. He counted the seconds, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him and he didn’t even realize, at first, that he was speaking, that he was talking to Mycroft, he didn’t even know what he told him, that would register later, maybe…but he heard Mycroft’s voice, his tone cutting, icy when he said,

“Oh, trust me, John. There will be no mercy, no _games_ when time comes.” He nodded, without looking at the older man, his eyes trained on Sherlock, whose heart had started beating again. He let out a breath and he didn’t care whether Mycroft saw it as a sign of weakness, not when Sherlock’s heart was beating again, even if he was unconscious and had an oxygen mask helping him to breathe, now. They still had time.

Doctor Campbell got out of the room and John couldn’t help wondering whether the man had had any sleep ever since Sherlock had been brought there – or whether Mycroft had, not that he showed any outward sign of tiredness; the only thing that gave away the fact that Mycroft had spent any length of time at his brother’s bedside was the lack of the umbrella and the fact that he had foregone his jacket, which was neatly folded on a chair in Sherlock’s room. Mycroft and the doctor exchanged a look and John didn’t even want to know, he didn’t care what the silent conversation they were having was about as long as it meant that they could cure Sherlock.

“Come along, John.” Mycroft said, “It’s going to be a long day, you might want to have some tea.”

John didn’t miss the doctor’s curt nod of his head or the fact that he closed the door when he got in Sherlock’s room. John didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want _bloody_ tea! He wanted to be in Sherlock’s room, he wanted to count his heartbeats and see the rise and fall of his chest. He doubted, though, that he had a choice on the matter.

“We shall return shortly, don’t worry.” Mycroft said.

John nodded and followed the man down the hallway. “You saw Sherlock – earlier, right?” John asked when they got in the elevator.

“I did.” Mycroft said. He didn’t volunteer anything else. He didn’t offer any theory, he didn’t even look at him.

“What the hell is going on, Mycroft?” John asked. He felt stupid asking that question; it was quite clear what was happening: Sherlock was _dying!_ His body was burning up with a fever they couldn’t break, his blood pressure spiked up only to pummel constantly, it wouldn’t be long until his organs started shutting down one by one. He _knew_ that, he wanted to know what Mycroft did, he wanted to _understand._ Mycroft didn’t reply, though.

They exited the elevator and the feeling of unreality, of being almost disconnected from his own body went up a notch when John realized that the hallway they were walking down to was virtually identical to the one they had just left. They stopped in front of a door, and the feeling of unreality became almost tangible when Mycroft used an electronic key to open the door. The room inside was an office, although it was hardly as Spartan as the room next to Sherlock’s. Mycroft sat behind a huge desk and gestured him to sit, while typing a text on his mobile.

“We obtained the vial and the syringe used on Sherlock, the remains of the compound are being examined,” Mycroft said handing him a manila folder, John sat and took the folder in his hands, without opening it yet, waiting for Mycroft to continue. The man arched an eyebrow, but John didn’t budge. He needed to hear the facts from Mycroft, however incomplete they might be presented.

He was good at reading between the lines of what the Holmes brothers said.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Something we are not familiar with, unfortunately.” Mycroft said.

John nodded. The _we_ Mycroft had used meant more than the British government, he was sure. Great. Just bloody fantastic!

“I am enquiring, though.” Mycroft said, “This compound – some have suggested that it was specifically made for Sherlock.”

“Some?” John asked. “Your people?”

“Not just my people.” Mycroft said, “They believe that, given enough time, they could isolate the components and find a cure.”

“We don’t have enough time!” John hissed.

Mycroft nodded. “I’m aware, John.” He said, “which warrants the question of the compound itself. Whoever had it created put a lot of money and effort into it – they hired and used unsuspecting men, all of them without a criminal record or any known association to terrorism activity or sympathizers. The water in his building complex had been spiked.” He gestured to the manila folder John was still holding, “Those men didn’t even know who Sherlock is and why was he in Dublin.”

“Why was he in Dublin anyway?” John asked.

“Our intelligence brought him there. To my chagrin I admit that it wasn’t my people who apprehended those men.”

John’s eyebrow shot high. “Who did?”

Mycroft didn’t reply at first, then he said, “The same people who gave us the syringe and the vial and who are communicating with me using Sherlock’s mobile phone. They’re also unsure whether the proof Sherlock found about Moriarty is genuine.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Moriarty. Of course. It made sense: he was clever enough to stage his death, rich, powerful and crazy enough to have a drug designed to – lock Sherlock in a catatonia like state, while his body burned up with fever.

“Do you trust these people?” John asked.

Mycroft seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he handed him his mobile phone. John was taken aback by the older man’s gesture.

“Read the texts.” He said.

There was a moment of silence between them, John wanted to know _why_ Mycroft was choosing to tell him those things. What would it change? Sherlock would still be in that bed, with an oxygen mask helping him to breath and his internal organs starting to weaken. He took Mycroft’s mobile. He couldn’t help a little smile when he read some of Sherlock’s texts.

_Remember what you promised about John._

_-SH_

_I believe, brother mine, that is none of your business._

_-SH_

_I am, in fact, perfectly fine. But really, Mycroft, how would you know?_

_-SH_

_No, a weather eye is not enough. Not now. Do keep your promise, Mycroft!_

_-SH_

Other texts were ciphered, John suspected they dealt with Sherlock’s findings and his mission. The other texts coming from Sherlock became more and more convulsed, he didn’t text his brother about the locked door in his mind palace, but he did ask him about Weland. Sherlock’s last text sent shivers running up John’s spine.

_wHaftt did I do?what did I tel You? ‘Nexgt time you see me…’ how does it end? -s_

John knew Mycroft was looking at him, he tried to school his features not to give away anything, but he knew it was useless – and mostly he didn’t really care, not any more. Anthea entered the room bringing both tea and a stack of folders, John cast a glance at the woman and, for a moment, he envied how above it all she looked. Of course, why wouldn’t she? It wasn’t her brother or the man she loved in a hospital bed; it was just her job, nothing more, nothing less for her.

 _Pettiness does not suit you, John_. He heard Sherlock fondly chiding him and decided he was losing his head, he was going crazy. He decided to focus on the other texts and frowned.

 

_Where did you recruit those people, Mycroft? Security detail for Sherlock was appallingly sloppy. How easy has it been for some kids to pull it off?_

_I’m honestly disappointed._

_Yes, I’m using Sherlock’s phone. Well done – that wasn’t obvious at all._

_Sending a little something on your way. You might want to hear some sound bites found in a laptop._

_Yes. It was me. I personally did give a concussion to one moron and broke a finger of another, I was in a hurry._

_I still owe you a Scottish kiss, Mycroft dear._

_If I were a betting man I would say the Irish bloke who has an hard on for Sherlock is still alive. Is that how you’ve been protecting him all these years?_

_Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mycroft! I am not the enemy here. I want to help. I don’t need to tell you why!_

_How bad is it?_

_How long does he have? Don’t you dare not replying, you tosser!_

_Yes, I’m in London._

 

“Who is this?” John asked – even though he suspected and it didn’t make sense, but after all if Sherlock and Moriarty had both apparently staged their suicides why wouldn’t Sherlock’s brother be still alive?

“My brother.” Mycroft said, “But that’s not important right now.”

“He thinks Moriarty is still alive. Why?” John asked. Trust Mycroft Holmes to confuse him even more. Twenty four hours before he had no clue about the existence of a third Holmes brother and now he was reading his texts and his speculation about Moriarty being still alive. “For all we know he might be behind all of this.” John continued.

“He wouldn’t. He never liked mind games, he wouldn’t drug Sherlock. He would snap his neck.” Mycroft didn’t miss a beat when he added, “Besides, given a choice he would probably kill me, but never Sherlock.”

“People change, Mycroft.” John said, “provided it is indeed your brother.”

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively, apparently he didn’t deem it worthy to continue the discussion. “To answer your first question: there are two mp3 files sent as attachments, play them.” Mycroft said.

John searched for the files and pressed play to the first one. “ _Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive._ ” It was Moriarty’s voice. Clear, full of that malice and sick mirth he remembered. Was it a new recording? It sounded as if he was talking to someone, in the open.

“ _Your friends will die if you don’t._ ” Moriarty said. Seven words. John knew what had happened, Sherlock had told him why he had had to jump – he knew that he had had no choice, he had forgiven Sherlock – even though part of him had kept mourning, was _still_ in mourning, but to hear the words…to hear the glee in Moriarty’s voice as he uttered those seven words made John hold the mobile tighter in his hand.

 _“John.”_ Sherlock said and John heard the fear in his voice. Sherlock had sat there, pretending not to care about Mrs. Hudson, pretending to be –

_You machine_

Unfeeling, but he should have known – even then. He knew now, and was tempted to turn off that damn thing. He didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want to hear what the two men had said to each other on that rooftop, minutes before everything – their whole world had come crushing down when Sherlock had had to fall. He wanted to turn off that thing, but he didn’t. He heard everything, he heard Moriarty’s threats, he heard Sherlock – brilliant, a warrior, a fighter; he heard him trying to outsmart Moriarty, even though plans had already been made.

“ _I am you –_ ” Sherlock said to Moriarty. And John had to swallow, he looked at Mycroft who was drinking his tea, a decidedly bored look on his face and John wanted to ask him why – why was he putting him through that? Wasn’t it enough that Sherlock was dying a few floors below? That his heart had stopped again? That his doctors could only try and buy him some time? He stopped the player, just as Sherlock said, “ _I may be on the side of the angels – but don’t think for one second that I am one of them._ ”

“It is to be noted,” Mycroft said, “that this is not our recording of the event.”

“You had –” John started and then shook his head, of course there would be other records of that moment. There was a plan, according to what Sherlock had told him – and actually he had never really explained how he had survived the fall.

“Isn’t it interesting that it was part of the audio recordings found in the laptop of the young fellow who physically broadcasted Jim Moriarty’s message?”

“You said they were unsuspecting men, without any criminal record.” John said.

“Yes, the young man claims he just downloaded those files following precise instructions. All except for the second file were pre recorded.”

“What’s in the second file?” John asked.

“Jim Moriarty.” Mycroft said. John nodded, pressing play on the second mp3 file with numb fingers.

“Did you miss me?” Jim said. It was like in that message, the exact same words, but the voice hadn’t been tampered with. It was the same voice that had condemned Sherlock to fall, to two years of secrecy, of torture and loneliness. “You haven’t seen what I have in store for you. But you will. I keep my promises. I always keep my promises.”

He was alive. He was really alive, after all. And Sherlock’s body was burning up with fever, his life was in danger and there was nothing they could do.

“What do we do, Mycroft?” John asked. Mycroft didn’t answer and John, for the first time since he had met the older Holmes, wondered whether he had a plan, a course of action. “Is that why you sent me back to Mary?” John asked.

“She _is_ your protection detail.” Mycroft said.

“You said she went rogue.” John retorted. And he would be happy if the Holmes brothers stopped thinking he was useless and couldn’t take care of himself.

“Nevertheless she will do her job.” Mycroft replied, “One for which she has been handsomely paid so far.”

John blinked. He had known intellectually that Mary must have been paid for her job, to hear the truth spelled out by Mycroft though, made it all even more real. He thought about Mary, about her standing next to Mycroft on the Tarmac while Sherlock and he talked, he thought about her words before he left the house, how sincere she had sounded.

“Did you talk to her?” He asked. He thought that he shouldn’t care, because Sherlock was in a hospital bed, again, because Moriarty was alive, because his life was such a fucking mess that one more didn’t make any difference, but he couldn’t help asking.

“Yes. We have an understanding on the matter.” Mycroft said.

“Care to elaborate?” John asked.

“Not particularly, no.” Mycroft replied and John just deflated against his chair; he shook his head and said, “She didn’t tell me – all this time, she could have come clean about you and she didn’t.”

Mycroft didn’t reply to him, not that John had really expected him to. What could he tell him anyway? John had known what he was getting into when he had accepted to help Mycroft. Why would the man care that Mary could _still_ disappoint him?

“She might be working for Moriarty for all we know.” He whispered.

He hadn’t even meant to say that aloud. It was – a stretch, he realized that, but then again Jim Moriarty had blown his head off and he had ended up being still alive.

“Nothing in her past seems to suggest that.” Mycroft said. His voice didn’t admit any argument.

Well, too bad, because John was tired of being surprised by the woman he had married. “You admitted she has played you.” John said.

“Don’t underestimate me, John.” Mycroft hissed.

John smiled. He couldn’t help it. He got up from the chair, the manila folder still in his hands. “You should perhaps stop overestimate yourself for a change. Oh, and also find a cure for your brother!” John’s voice had dropped as he said the last words, he looked at Mycroft and said, “Are we done? Can I go back to Sherlock, now?”

Mycroft nodded. He opened a drawer and handed him a key card – how many of them had he collected since the day before? He had lost count. He was at the door when Mycroft spoke, “Despite what you might think, John. I do care about my brother. I will do everything in my power to find a cure – and I suspect I won’t be the only one.”

John turned toward the man saying, “Too bad the only person I trust to accomplish this was breathing through an oxygen mask last I saw him.”

He didn’t wait for Mycroft’s reaction, he turned and left the room, striding down the hallway, looking ahead of him, only when he was in the elevator, alone, he let out a breath and closed his eyes. If the breath came out as a sob, John didn’t realize it, didn’t feel it – he didn’t care.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The repertoire of our memory cannot be imagined  
> as cut in two thus by a knife. It’s a single sheet with traces  
> of stamps, abrasions, and a few spots of blood,  
> It was no passport, not even a testimonial.  
> To be of service, even to hope, would have still meant life.  
> \- Eugenio Montale (The Repertoire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long delay. I know, I suck. Teacher training is kicking my ass:(  
> Thank you, thank you thank you to those who commented, left kudos and read the story.   
> I'm still writing and I'm almost finished, hopefully I'll have more time by the end of the month:)

> _The repertoire of our memory cannot be imagined_
> 
> _as cut in two thus by a knife. It’s a single sheet with traces_
> 
> _of stamps, abrasions, and a few spots of blood,_
> 
> _It was no passport, not even a testimonial._
> 
> _To be of service, even to hope, would have still meant life._
> 
> _\- Eugenio Montale (The Repertoire)_

March, 2002

 

They were buggered. The good news was that Sherlock had finally shut up – internal haemorrhage had done the trick – and was focusing his remaining strength on walking and getting to the rendez vous point as fast as they could. The bad news was that his baby brother was possibly too out of it to hand a gun and _both_ his hands were currently lacking fingernails.

Weland Holmes was reasonably sure he could be a decent shoot even in his current condition, but he would very much like not having to find out if at all possible. Balance of probability, as Mycroft was fond of saying, was that he would have to shoot the gun and that they would most probably be outnumbered. Yes, they were buggered!

Weland had had time to think for the past hours – God, how long had they been held? It had felt like forever, but he doubted it had been 24 hours since their cover had blown – and he had come to the conclusion that working with a sibling – two, actually, if one counted Mycroft, was a terrible idea, as the lack of fingernails and Sherlock’s injuries could easily prove.

They had been both warned about dangers of sentiment on the field, but Weland had honestly believed they would be the exception to the rule. Even Mycroft had believed the same. Sherlock had been the only one among them voicing his doubts about it, but working together had proved to be easy, funny, exciting – and Sherlock had stopped voicing his concerns; after all he was in the game to have fun, saving lives was not his priority.

Things would have to change, provided that they actually managed to get away from that bloody mess. Sherlock made a wheezing sound – one Weland definitely didn’t like - and he stopped, for a second, to look at his brother and he immediately wished he had bashed in the head of the moron who had tortured them more forcefully.

Sherlock was too pale, he was sweating, even though it was a chilly night, his lips had turned blue and he looked like he could barely stand.

“We need to move.” Sherlock panted.

“I know.” Weland said, “can you walk?” he asked. No point trying to be macho men about it, they needed to reach the appointed rendez vous point, the rescue team had a very narrow window of time to get them away, their contact had been very clear about that.

“Of course I can walk, don’t...” Sherlock said but had to stop when a violent fit of cough made him double over.

 _Right..._ the morons had held Sherlock’s head down in a bucket filled with water. God...what a mess!

Weland rolled his eyes at his brother, at least he tried with the one that wasn’t swollen shut, and looped his brother's arm around his shoulders, to keep him upright, "Sure you can."

"You have bruised ribs." Sherlock reminded him.

"Yes, I'm aware. Now shut the fuck up and move!" Weland hissed.

It was just half a mile, he couldn't hear their captors following them, they had had a head start, but it wouldn't last long.

"I'm slowing you down." Sherlock said, sounding for once genuinely apologetic.

Weland didn't answer him. What could he tell him anyway? He was right.

"You should leave me here..." Sherlock said, "no use to both get killed."

Yeah, like _that_ was going to ever happen!

"Weland?" Sherlock whispered.

"You broke the code and memorized the data. We need you alive." Weland said.

"Your retentive memory is good, I could..." Sherlock started, but Weland curtly interrupted him saying, "No – and that's not a debate, now shut up and move!"

Sherlock, for once, complied...Weland knew his brother, he knew he was trying to be rational about what was happening, it was his default coping mechanism – the saner one – the others were far more upsetting and dysfunctional.

They were almost there, he quickly checked the satellite telephone in his pocket. They had been told that they were to use that telephone only in case of emergency; judging by how Sherlock was dragging his feet, he saw that as an emergency, but resisted the temptation to use it; it was useless, they were close, he still couldn’t hear footsteps behind them or helicopters but he quickened his steps, Sherlock trying not to slow him down.

“Hang on,” Weland said, “we’re almost there.”

Sherlock’s only reply was a weak nod of his head, Weland noticed that Sherlock was bleeding, the back of his tattered shirt was damp with something sticky and warm. He refrained from sighing; his brother had not only antagonized their interrogators; he had pissed them off to the point of being beaten almost to death.

“For future reference,” Weland said, “being a smart arse while captured is never a good idea!” He cast a glance at Sherlock who, incredibly, gave him a small, pained smile, “You are welcome.” He said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, “But there won’t be a next time and you know that.”

Weland clenched his jaws. He didn’t have the energy to fight his brother, not when he was convinced that he was about to die. He was not a genius, he didn’t have his siblings’ amazing deductive skills, but he was a good operative – and he would be damned before he let his brother die in the arse end of the world, after being tortured by morons.

That. Would. Not. Happen.

 

He should have known, he thought when they arrived at the appointed rendez vous point. He should have known that they had been too lucky, that their daring escape, gone without a hitch, had been too easy. No one was there. There were just trees, rocks and a ditch. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but for a moment Weland felt his brother’s hand clench around his waist – which hurt, like most of his body, but his mind was too busy assessing the situation and think of the ways he would kick Mycroft’s arse to notice.

“Well...fuck!” Weland swore under his breath. Incredibly enough, Sherlock chuckled. It was a liquid, weak sound which Weland hated, but he had to smile when Sherlock said, “Do you remember the jar? It was Mycroft’s idea...”

“Whom else?” Weland said, moving toward a slightly less open part of the area. They needed not to be so exposed, before the rescue team arrived.

“He started to fine you whenever you swore.” Sherlock said, and he sounded feverish now, his teeth were chattering.

Weland lowered Sherlock to the ground, as gently as he could. It was a rubbish hiding place, between rocks and trees, but neither of them could realistically do any better at the moment.

“I always stole back the money.” Weland said. He took a breath as he checked the gun.

“And Mycroft – would steal it back.” Sherlock weakly said.

Weland touched Sherlock’s forehead; he was burning up with fever.

“He’s a control freak. He must be going crazy right now.” Weland said.

He was smiling, despite himself. Working with his siblings had been a terrible idea – but it had been fun taking the piss out of Mycroft, it had been like being children again; except for the fact that the game they were playing was infinitely more dangerous. Almost as if talking about him had somehow conjured him up, his satellite phone rung, and Weland answered right away.

“Where the fuck is the rescue team?” He asked without preambles.

He heard some static and then Mycroft’s voice, tense, filled with an edge he didn’t remember ever hearing said, “We might be having a problem.”

“Define problem.” Weland hissed.

He still couldn’t hear footsteps, helicopters, dogs – but that didn’t mean that they weren’t following them, that they weren’t hunting them.

“The rescue team has been ambushed. Situation?”

“How many ways we’re fucked? Let me tell thee...” Weland started, but Mycroft interrupted him and sharply repeated, “Situation?”

“I’ll survive, Sherlock – ” Weland turned his back at Sherlock and lowered his voice.

He knew his brother was probably hearing him, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “not good. Suspected punctured lung, internal haemorrhage, all the greatest hits.” There was silence on the other end of the line for a couple of seconds.

“Weland,” Mycroft eventually said, “we might be able to still send the rescue team, but therein lies the problem.”

“In plain English, brother, I’ve had a long day.” Weland said.

He could feel it now; the throbbing in his body, his heart drumming in his ribcage, hurting, making it hard to breathe. “Given the circumstances of the ambush and the damage sustained, there is only room for one of you on the helicopter.” Mycroft said, his voice, for once, held no smarminess, no patronizing tone.

“I see.” Weland replied.

He heard Sherlock shifting behind him, probably trying to deduce what was happening.

“I’m looking for other options.” Mycroft said quickly. Too quickly. Who would have thought... _sentiment._ Weland mused for a moment.

“Do it very fast then...” Weland said.

“Don’t hang up. I’m not sure we’ll be able to...” Mycroft said and Weland shook his head at his brother’s words.

“Ok...just hang on.” He said. He moved, so that he could see Sherlock.

From all standpoints there was just one possible choice to make, should Mycroft not find an alternative: Sherlock _needed_ to be rescued. Not only because his injuries were more severe, but because he had the data they had been looking for; information on which countless lives depended upon.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked after a moment of silence.

He heard other voices in the background, the furious tapping of fingers on keyboards.

“Small talk, Mycroft? Really? How quaint of you.” Weland said.

Thing was...he didn’t envy his older brother, he knew he was about to face a dilemma – and Mycroft Holmes could be a cold hearted bastard, but he cared about his family. He could only try to make things easier for him, there would be time to kick his arse when he went back. _If_ he went back.

“I need to know the extent of your injuries to make...”

“I’m fine.” Weland snapped.

“No, you’re not!” Both Mycroft and Sherlock said.

Weland felt a hysterical laughter bubble up in his throat and had to force it down with a snort. Of all the bloody times not to be at each other’s throats they were choosing that moment?

“I’ll survive.” Weland said. Balance of probability said otherwise, but Weland noticed how both Sherlock and Mycroft refrained from commenting his words.

“Listen, Weland...” Mycroft said, “should things...”

“Sherlock.” Weland said, without hesitation, interrupting him.

He knew what Mycroft wanted to ask, he had thought the same things; there was no time to dance around the subject. He noticed that Sherlock was looking at him, and there was confusion on his face and in his eyes...and things were bad if Sherlock hadn’t already deduced what was going on.

“I’m doing all I can.” Mycroft said.

Weland believed him, of course he did. That didn’t change the fact that the only logical thing to do was to send that damn helicopter and start to organize for an alternative rescue team for him.

“Just send the bloody helicopter.” Weland whispered.

He could hear them, now; there were faint noises approaching them; Sherlock, next to him, tensed.

“I’m already organizing your rescue team; it won’t be long.” Mycroft said and Weland heard both the worry and the relief in his brother’s voice.

“Yes. You do that.” Weland said, closing his eyes for a moment. He stood up, walking a few steps away from Sherlock, mindful not to be too exposed. “Tell them to give me ammo and a rifle. It should buy me some time. Now listen to me...” Weland said, “Sherlock...”

“I know he won’t take it well.” Mycroft whispered.

“Just – we don’t want another Redbeard situation. Understood?” Weland said.

He shot a glance at Sherlock, who was looking at him, still confused, shivering for the cold and the fever. His little brother, who had shut himself in emotionally, who couldn’t deal with loss and heartbreak and would rather be a cold, emotionless freak. He had embraced the game for the challenge it provided to his big brain and restless nature, he had been – happy, arrogant, impossible and brilliant; he had been different from the kid he had been, the forlorn teenager, the bitter young man he had been while at uni, the occasional drug user.

A Redbeard situation meant to avoid having to see Sherlock on suicide watch, sedated and mute; it meant that Mycroft would have to protect him from himself...even if Sherlock would not allow him to do so.

“We won’t. I give you my word, Weland Sherr...” Mycroft said.

"Oh, shut up, not the whole name, you tosser!” Weland snapped, but he was smiling, “and just so you know, I owe you a Scottish kiss as soon as I’m back.”

Mycroft didn’t reply for a second, then he said, “the helicopter’s e.t.a is two minutes.”

“Good. Holmes out, I guess.” Weland said.

“Good luck, Weland.” Mycroft whispered...and if he didn’t know better, Weland would have sworn he had heard a hitch in his brother’s voice.

The footsteps were getting nearer, but so was the helicopter. The simplest solution would be to leave one of the rescue team members to the ground and board that helicopter, but not even he could be so cold. He decided to hold that line of thought, and gingerly crouched next to Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” He said and had to swallow past a lump in his throat; for a moment he was reminded of all the times he had woken up Sherlock when they were younger; he was tempted to ruffle his hair, like when they were kids and Sherlock would protest, would be the spoiled little brother who dreamt of being a pirate, a spy, a scientist.

“What...?” Sherlock weakly said.

“Listen to me, listen very carefully...” Weland said.

Sherlock opened his eyes and it took him a moment to focus his gaze on him. Weland used his best senior operative in charge, older brother voice, the ones which sometimes Sherlock halfway listened to. He explained the situation to Sherlock, leaving out the fact that Mycroft had neglected to tell him about the estimated time of arrival of his own rescue team; he gave Sherlock the facts, the cold, hard logic his brother had apparently upheld to live by...and his brother refused it...and for a moment he was reminded again of the child he had been, with his “no” said in a small voice.

He took his brother’s face in his hands – and his skin was so fucking hot, and he was so afraid that he had to rely for once to the half listened tirades Mycroft used to subject him to about how sentiment was detrimental to one’s lucidity and how to avoid it.

“It will be all right.” Weland said. He didn’t make Sherlock any promises. He had never lied to him, he wasn’t about to start now...or so he meant to do, until he saw the panic in his brother’s eyes. “I promise.” He said.

Sherlock shook his head, flinching for a moment, and Weland said, “Look, Mycroft will save the day...”

Sherlock closed his eyes and panic spiked inside of Weland when his brother’s head lolled on a side.

"Keep your eyes open, Sherlock!" Weland hissed, and for a moment he didn’t care that he could hear footsteps getting closer and closer, what it mattered was to keep Sherlock alive until the helicopter arrived. "Don't you dare closing your eyes now!" He said, he had meant it as a command, but he realized it had come out in a nasal, pleading tone.

Sherlock nodded at his words, gripping his forearms with his hands, and Weland let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding when his brother opened his eyes right when the helicopter started to land in the area. Mycroft had told him the rescue team had been ambushed, and it was clear when two men came out of the vehicle – which hopefully could actually bring Sherlock to safety -- how true it was; he didn’t want to die, because that was the most logical outcome of him being left behind.

He didn’t want to be taken and tortured again, but then again, he wasn’t already so jaded as to condemn some poor sod to the same fate.

“Weland, don’t…” Sherlock said, his voice was getting weaker and weaker; not caring about the two men approaching them, he ruffled his brother’s hair and said, “Time to go, brother mine…”

He knew, even before the two men crouched, to help Sherlock up, that his brother would put up a fight; it was remarkable, in a way, considering how severely he had been beaten, and that sudden burst of brotherly love was appreciated, but that was definitely not the time, because if his estimations were correct their captors would be getting close soon, and he really didn’t want Sherlock to be there when it happened.

Maybe he was going to die, maybe Mycroft would somehow manage to save the day like the most obnoxious _deus ex machina_ known to humanity, but Sherlock would be well away from there.

Sherlock lashed out, as much as his strength allowed him, and Weland had to help the two men, who were limping quite visibly, with carrying his brother to the helicopter.

He said words, although he didn’t know what, exactly, he told his brother; he kept his face carefully blank, too tired to feigning bravado, he kept his touch steady, while straining to hear how close their captors were getting. As requested, he was given a rifle and enough ammo to kill a small army. Sherlock was looking at him, he had stopped fighting, he was a bloody mess, but his eyes were focusing on him, deducing him and Weland chose to ignore his brother. And it wasn’t easy, because Sherlock had always been impossible to ignore, even when he didn’t say a word.

“How long until the next team arrives?” He asked to one of the men.

The man in question looked at him as if he had grown a second head and shook his head. He didn’t know or, more likely, he thought there wouldn’t be a rescue team sent for him.

“Now go…” He said, and still he ignored Sherlock. Unlike his siblings he was not a rational person, he had never been, but he knew how to man up, how to put on a brave face...if only for his little brother's benefit.

"This is absurd..." Sherlock said, "you can't stay here!"

Weland still didn't look at his brother, he kept his voice steady, though when he said, "I'll be fine, you know me!"

He watched as the other man got into the helicopter, wishing he could be a bloody, jaded bastard and condemn some poor bloke to his death. He knew he was expendable, though – it was part of his job, and he knew he would not go down without a fight. He moved, getting away from the helicopter as it prepared to take off. He could feel Sherlock, he was still looking at him and only then did he allow himself to look.

He smiled at his brother, he wasn’t pretending then…he didn’t even care whether Sherlock could deduce that it was a genuine smile, even though he suddenly felt very tired. He sighed, grimacing at the pain that simple gesture produced. Sherlock was safe, the data they had recovered would save countless lives, Mycroft would protect Sherlock…now he just had to try and not get captured. He heard them, they were coming…he didn’t have much time.

He heard dogs barking and a helicopter approaching.

“Well, shit…” he hissed.

Not having much time was definitely an understatement. He was thoroughly buggered. Not that it had ever stopped him before.

He was a Holmes, after all.

* * *

 

>   To arrive where you are,
> 
> To get from where you are not,
> 
> You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy
> 
> T.S. Eliot (The Four Quartets – East Coker)

 

_The kiss was almost punishing, demanding everything out of Sherlock, while his hips touched the sink. There hadn’t been words or sounds, only John’s lips suddenly covering his, seeking entrance, and Sherlock had tensed, for a moment. Warm, bitter; John’s mouth tasted of tea and adrenaline. And Sherlock wanted – no, he needed that taste, he needed to feel John, alive, close. John – safe, his hands on his nape and hair, deepening the kiss and Sherlock…touched him. Alive. They were both alive. They hadn’t died in the pool, but something else had happened, something that had spun Sherlock’s world in its axis._

No! Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear his mind from those thoughts and images. Had he fallen asleep? Had he dreamt? He couldn’t be sure. Time’s texture was coming undone.

What was the last thing he remembered? He moved, realizing he was bound.

No. Not exactly; it was a straightjacket.

Somehow in those moments of oblivion he must have been moved and bound, like a wild animal.

Had he fallen asleep? Why couldn’t he remember?

_John’s skin was soft under his fingertips, Sherlock smiled as he trailed soft patterns on the man’s skin. John was sleeping, his face hidden against his chest, his arm loosely draped around his waist and Sherlock – was breathing it all in: John’s breath ghosting against his skin, the warmth of his body, their bodies still entangled, the warm, peaceful darkness of their bedroom, his body spent – lax, natural chemicals in his body results of intercourse making him – peaceful, happy. He hadn’t expected that. It had happened and while he suspected that there would be excuses found in the broad light of day: adrenalin, the thrill of having escaped an almost certain death in the pool; there, in the darkness of his bedroom, he could admit that he had wanted it – them. Together, like that. He had craved it, like a hit, like the pleasure-pain that always came with it...except that it had been better, it had quieted the constant noises and images in his head. It had happened and..._

It had _not_ happened. John and he had not given into passion when they had come back from the pool, the night they had first met Moriarty. What had happened was that they had come back to the flat, taken their turns to use the bathroom, drank tea and had gone to bed, each in their own room. What had happened was that Sherlock had spent a considerable amount of time staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, thinking about what John Watson had done.

The want had been there, he had acknowledged its presence, its humming just beneath his skin, and it had not been something foreign and unwelcome to him as much as surprising...and exhilarating.

_John’s lips, trailing down the long column of his neck, lapping and biting his sensitive skin. He was solid, warm, alive. Their tastes mingled perfectly, he thought. They moved, as one, hands reaching, hips rolling, seeking friction, seeking the reality and affirmation of skin to skin contact. John’s fingers digging in his hair, almost painfully so, as the kiss deepened and Sherlock couldn’t help but letting his body take the lead...overwhelm him with bouts of hot-too vivid colours-soft sounds- want-need_

No. Sherlock struggled against the restrains. Doctor Clive had promised he would help him, but the only thing he could see now was the dirty white of the padded cell. He took a long, deep breath; something had happened...there was a reason why he could not remember, there was a reason why he was locked up in that room.

He had seen something, hadn’t he? Before...before he had asked doctor Clive to help him. He needed to focus, he needed to narrow it down, but he couldn’t do while images of dreams and wishful thinking crowded his mind. John Watson and he had kissed. It had happened, but it hadn’t been one of the lust filled scenarios his mind was supplying.

_~“I need you to come back, Sherlock. Please.” John’s voice was soft, his hand was resting on his, his fingertips were against his wrist, taking his pulse. “Don’t...don’t do that again. You heard me once, I’m sure you’re hearing me even now.”~_

Sherlock blinked his eyes. He looked around in the small, circular room. It was dirty: the padded walls, the floor, even his straightjacket was dirty with old rust (blood, old blood looked like rust) ... and yet the only thing he could smell, the only thing he could hear was John. John, who was pleading him to come back to him. Because that’s what he did. He always came back for John. He would always come back to him if he could help it.

His eyes were deceiving him. His mind was playing tricks on him. But he didn’t know what to trust. He had always trusted his senses, his logic and intellect...but nothing made sense. Nothing looked real, nothing smelled real...except for John, whose phantom touch he could feel on his wrist. It was weird how he couldn’t feel the straightjacket impeding his movements, but he could feel John’s fingertips against his skin, even through the thick fabric of the straightjacket.

~ “There are things I need to tell you, things I should have told you a long time ago, Sherlock. You know how hard it is for me. These things. But I swear, I will tell you. Just...come back, please.”~

 _That_ was real. There was too much emotion in John’s plea. Doctor Clive had been sympathetic, but it had lacked something – Sherlock realized. The other people he had seen...why couldn’t even remember their faces? He tried to remember what had happened before, but, not for the first time, he only got confusing images. It didn’t matter, he thought; it might be frustrating and unnerving to lose part of his memories like that, but he needed to focus on the present.

 _But what happens when you wake up? And while we are on the subject – why aren’t you waking up?_ Mary’s voice, the words she had said in his dream sprung up in his mind. The idea of a dream was ludicrous...but the alternatives didn’t make any sense either. If he had really been locked in a psychiatric hospital, there would have been records, people in London would have been alerted; he couldn't take a step anywhere in the world without Mycroft knowing or finding him.

He had stayed in Dublin using an alias, yet he had been addressed with his real name by doctor Clive. He hadn't believed in the alternate life narrative. He was _not_ delusional. Or, he thought, there might be delusions, but they were not about a musician losing the love of his life and building a whole alternate life to cope with his grief.

It was frustrating to operate without all the data, to have such large gaps in his memories, but his mind – as sluggish and incomplete as it felt to him in that moment, was only supplying two possibilities: either he was being kept in a psychiatric hospital and, unbeknownst to him, he was being drugged or he was hallucinating everything. Either way he was locked up in a padded room, getting out of that straightjacket, whether it was real or an hallucination was paramount.

He looked around while he tried to get up from the dirty pavement; it was peculiar how he couldn't feel the straitjacket constricting his movements, he couldn't feel its texture, but he could feel John's fingertips against his wrist; he noticed a cot on the side of the room and frowned – it hadn't been there before, he was certain of it – the idea of being somehow stuck in a hallucination was starting to make more and more sense. He used the padded wall as leverage to get up, glossing over the fact that he couldn't feel the wall behind him.

It would be fascinating, perhaps, under other circumstances to investigate further, or it might be upsetting, Sherlock wasn’t sure – the only thing he could really feel, besides the constant warmth of John’s fingertips against his wrist, was the urgency; the need to get out, to see what happened once he opened that door and...

The lights in the bleak room flickered, the weak yellowish lights casting shadows around him and Sherlock blinked his eyes; _focus!_ He needed to focus.

He needed to...

 _~ Come back to me._  ~

_John’s warm breath, tickling against his jaw, pleasure, throbbing between them, as his breath came out in soft pants. He needed to look at John, he needed to..._

Focus! Sherlock gritted his teeth.

_~“I...I didn’t choose her, Sherlock.” ~_

Sherlock couldn’t feel the restraints, but under the flickering lights he could see that he was getting himself free.

_~“You told me...remember? That night.” ~_

He could hear John, loud and clear as if he was in that room, with him, he could hear his voice and the quiet desperation in it. It felt real, more than images surrounding him that were starting to look more and more bi-dimensional, more than the other images, physical sensations of pleasure consumed in the dark, with urgency marking every movement, that had the hazy texture of half forgotten dreams.

_~“I didn’t...and I haven’t. You need to come back, Sherlock. For me.”~_

Sherlock moved; it couldn’t be more than ten steps to the door (white, crusted with rust, a standard lock), yet with each step he took, the distance seemed to grow, which was illogical but not completely unexpected at that point.

_They breathed, together, and he could feel John’s smile on his skin, his fingers digging in his hips, there would be bruises, he thought, proof that they were both alive, that it had really happened, despite denial that could come in broad daylight._

Sherlock didn’t move when the lights flickered one last time and then went out. “Dull...” He said aloud, surprised by the metallic quality of his voice. As much as he knew he could not trust his senses, he did not like being dipped in complete darkness.

_John’s heartbeat, strong under his palm, comforting..._

John’s fingertips against his wrist, Sherlock was focusing on that warmth, it almost felt like a tether, it helped him to focus, to ignore the darkness surrounding him (it was _not_ real, it was a by-product of his imagination or a drug induced hallucination – it didn’t matter which), he moved, his steps steady but had to stop, ashamed of the way his heart lurched in his throat when he heard gunshots coming from outside, in what he assumed was the hallway.

If that wasn’t an already impossible scenario, he would have probably rolled his eyes at how irrational he was becoming; as it was, he could not control his body’s reactions: the blood pumping in his veins, his heartbeat almost deafening him for a moment. He did not move, though, he did not take a step back, even when he heard the commotion outside; it was not real.

~ “You said that you heard me that day, did you...hear everything, Sherlock?” ~ John’s voice had lowered, it was a whisper, but Sherlock could hear him, just like he had heard him at the cemetery that morning, when his resolve to keep John’s safe had only strengthened, even if part of him had had doubts, even if he had longed, if only for a moment, to make John know that he was still alive (that he missed him, that he had made a mistake, that he needed him, that Moriarty had been right all along because he did have a heart and it bloody hurt).

“I did, John.” He whispered to the darkness.

He clenched his fists to his side when he heard voices right outside the door.

  “Sherlock, are you in there?”

“Yes!” He shouted.

He knew that voice, it was the man who had appeared in his mind’s palace, the black dressed man he had seen in Dublin – why was he there? Why was his mind using him to get him out of that place?

“Step away from the door, now!” The voice said.

It was muscle memory, something that tugged and bit all around him, but Sherlock obeyed the voice, no questions asked, not doubting for a moment that man and his intentions; the explosion didn’t surprise him and at that point he was frankly starting to grow bored with the lack of sensation and details. He just wanted to get out of there and go back to reality.

Yet, he blinked his eyes when the man pointed the flashlight toward him. “Quick, we don’t have much time!” The man said.

He could see him, thanks to the lights in the hallway, he could make out his face, and yes, he was indeed the man he had seen in Dublin, the man who had started appearing in his mind’s palace ever since; he was dressed in black, from head to toe, a gun in his right hand and a flashlight in his left. The man looked relieved to see him, which didn’t make sense, but there wasn’t time to dwell on the implausibility of what was happening.

“Can you walk?” The man asked.

 _< “Can you walk?” _ _No, not really, the pain in his sinews, bones and muscles and in his lungs was getting worse, but he did not have a choice, didn’t he? It was either stopping and getting both of them killed, or treating his body as the transport it was and keep walking, until they reached the rendez vouz point. >_

“Oy, don’t do this now, Sherlock!” The man exclaimed, taking him away from flashes and images; they were hazy, but Sherlock remembered that pain, he remembered each and every injury he had sustained.

That man’s words – had brought it all back. Why?

“I...” Sherlock started, but the man rolled his eyes, and said, “We need to move. Now!”

He followed the man outside, ignoring the bodies on the floor. One after another the men fell, shot with deadly precision; Sherlock hadn’t shot them.

< _“Let me handle this, ok?”_

_“But...” Sherlock had objected._

_“I need you to watch my back, while we get out of here.”_

_“I’m not a child!” Sherlock had protested._

_“Good, then you might want to stop acting like one and do as you’re told! Now move!”_ >

“I’m not carrying you.” The man said, and Sherlock blinked.

“None of this is real.” Sherlock replied, and was surprised by the petulant tone of his voice.

The man looked around, but he was smiling, he casted a glance at him and said, “Took you long enough; this doesn’t change what I said, though. You need to focus, Sherlock!”

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked.

The man sighed, and kept walking, without answering his question. The silence in the hallway was eerie, unreal, all Sherlock could see was the bodies on the floor and the gray and red of the walls and the blood.

“This way.” The man said. And Sherlock wondered how could he know where to go if he himself had no idea.

He wondered why the man wasn’t answering his question.

“I asked you a question.” Sherlock said.

“I heard you.” The man replied without looking at him. The man stopped in front of an elevator.

“Trust me,” He said, “this is not the moment to know or _remember.”_

 _Remember?_ Sherlock looked at the man who, incredibly enough, was smiling at him.

“I’ve seen you before.” Sherlock said. But there was more, wasn’t there? And that man wasn’t helping him. He was clearly part of his subconscious, or a product of his mind’s altered state, but he refused to answer his questions.

The man shook his head and gestured him inside the elevator. “Why aren’t you answering my questions? Why are you here?” Sherlock asked.

“Are you asking me about your own subconscious and memories, mate?” The man said and he was grinning.

He got inside the elevator and only then did Sherlock get inside.

“Why are you here? Why not...” Sherlock trailed.

“John?” The man finished for him, “Oh, he’s here, he never really leaves. And he’s out there too, talking to you, can’t you hear him?”

 ~ _“What do you mean I have to go home? I’m not leaving him now!” John shouted._

_“I will call you should...” Mycroft started._

_“Oh, how fucking generous of you, Mycroft! Yes, call me when your brother, the only one you have left, dies, will you?”_ ~

 

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re dying, isn’t it obvious?” The man replied. “John is upset.”

“Why is Mycroft sending him away?” Sherlock asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders and said, “Not a clue, but you know him.”

_The only one you have left.._

Sherlock looked at the man who was looking ahead of him; he couldn’t feel the elevator moving, but that didn’t mean anything at that point;

“John...he said...” Sherlock started.

“I know what he said, I heard him.” The man said.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked.

He hated to repeat himself and he hated not knowing. The man, once again, didn’t reply to his question and Sherlock was tempted to grab him and force him to answer. Fragment of his imagination, hallucination or personification of his subconscious or not he had had it! He moved, but the man intercepted him, pinning him against the wall and hissed, “Don’t be stupid, I’m only trying to protect you!”

“Protect me from what?” Sherlock said.

He noticed that the man’s hands lacked some fingernails; he remembered how he had appeared to him in his mind’s palace: battered and bloodied, with tatters of clothes used as bandages for his fingers.

“Your mind – you started to remember in Dublin.” The man said.

_After the sharp prickle, when his body had started to burn and burn and burn. The shadow had surprised him, prickled him with something hot in his neck, hotter than his burning skin and then...cold and rain, but his skin was burning up with fever._

_No. Not fever. It was something else – something not natural, something that his body was fighting._

_The alleyway, a black hole, but it was inviting, it was the place his legs were carrying him to; somebody was following him, someone – used not to be heard, used to walk in the shadows, somebody – tall, lean, behind him._

_The water. It had been the water._

_Stupid! Stupid! He had been warned, though, hadn’t he? The tiles, they were cold against his burning skin, a welcome respite. He had been tortured, he thought he knew pain, but this was different, it was like being burned from the inside out, starting with his mind._

_A man, right behind him – how did he know? Balance of probability, as Mycroft would point out. The floor was damp and cold, but he didn’t care. He was burning, burning to the core._

_His core._

_Why hadn’t he listened to John? Why had he sent John away? His skin was burning to a crisp, it hurt – and the worst of it was that his mind, the only thing that mattered was ripping apart, he could feel it unravelling and he could not stop it._

_“Yes, thank you, Samuel.” The man said._

_How had he missed that there was someone else there? The other man stood behind the man in front of him, a concerned look on his features. He looked at the man in front of him: his face – where had he seen it? He looked familiar, blue-green eyes impossibly bright in that almost dark alleyway._

_“Sherlock....it’s me.” The man said._

_He knew that voice, didn’t he? He knew that face. Not just from that crowd. His mind had gone in circles around it for days._

_“I’m sorry, so sorry, I just wanted to help you.” The man said._

_The man – he was crouching in front of him, now. It had happened before, hadn’t it?_

_“Drugged, the water.” He could only say._

_Words were slipping away from his mind. He was hanging onto thoughts and images and names (John, Mycroft, Moriarty, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Weland...who was Weland?)_

_“It’s all right, Sherlock. It’s all right. Help is on its way.”_

_A cold hand against his forehead, burning with fever and drugs. It was welcome, it was – familiar._

_“You need to breathe, Sherlock. For me. Breathe, all right?”_

_The man said, his voice soft and warm and familiar._

_“Weland?” He breathed._

The elevator had disappeared, but the man in front of him (Weland…but who was he?) was still pinning him against something, a wall, perhaps, or a door. It was his mind’s palace; he would recognize it everywhere.

As if he needed confirmation of his previous deduction.

“You’re dying, Sherlock.” The man said, “I’m sure Mycroft is doing all he can, but not even he is infallible.”

“Therefore you don’t need to protect me any more.” Sherlock said.

The man smiled, “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“I’m not a child, Wel…” Sherlock stopped, swallowing. The name had just nested on the tip of his tongue, refusing to come out entirely.

“No,” The man said, “you’re just a bloody pain in the arse, as usual.”

“Why are we here?” Sherlock asked and, despite himself, he couldn’t help smiling at the man’s words.

“You wanted answers and to get out of this? Turn around.”

Sherlock did turn around, blinking when he saw the door without handle. “I can’t open it, you know that.”

Sherlock said looking at the man, Weland (why was it so hard to say the name?), “I have tried already.”

“That was then, now it’s different. It matters now!” Weland said.

“Will I wake up?” Sherlock asked.

Weland shook his head, “Probably not.” He said, “But you keep coming back here, so there must be a reason. Oh, and Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“14M2” Weland said.

He smirked and added, “it’s not casual. It has never been.”

“What is it, then?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know, I only know what you have allowed yourself to remember – and what has slipped through the cracks.”

 _Intriguing_. Sherlock thought.

Weland disappeared, and Sherlock was not surprised. A last locked room mystery, one that could save his life.

Sherlock smiled.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of italics, sorry. To try and make it clear: ~ = indicate what's going on outside Sherlock's mind  
> = indicate flashbacks


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had been sent home, and he still didn’t know how he hadn’t hit Mycroft when he had ordered him to go. He didn’t care about knowing the truth about Mary; he had gone back to her in order to find out about any possible threat to Sherlock, but it was all fucking moot, now, wasn’t it? Sherlock was dying, he hadn’t regained consciousness and John had spent hours at his bedside, pleading, begging him to come back, forgetting all his medical training and his scepticism and atheism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the people who read and commented, bookmarked and left kudos to this story. Sorry for the long delay in updating. Teacher training ate my soul! Thankfully it's over! I'm officially an English lit teacher! :D  
> Once again I need to apologise for any grammar/spelling mistake. English is not my language and I'm flying solo, therefore as much as I try to pay attention and correct any mistakes I might find, I might miss some (or a lot! So, so, so sorry!). I'll update more regularly now, I've almost finished writing the story:)

Sherlock was dying. John knew that, even if he hadn’t been a doctor he would have known that his body was weakening, that the doctors were only buying time, trying to avoid damage to his organs and brain but could not fight the drug that was killing him; the drug that Moriarty had created. He had been sent home, and he still didn’t know how he hadn’t hit Mycroft when he had ordered him to go.

He didn’t _care_ about knowing the truth about Mary; he had gone back to her in order to find out about any possible threat to Sherlock, but it was all fucking moot, now, wasn’t it? Sherlock was dying, he hadn’t regained consciousness and John had spent hours at his bedside, pleading, begging him to come back, forgetting all his medical training and his scepticism and atheism. Sherlock’s skin had been too hot, too clammy, his face chalky white; he had been unnaturally still; the only proof that he was still alive coming from the pulse he had kept feeling under his fingertips, not trusting for a second the ECG monitor.

In the end, despite the harsh words thrown at Mycroft – and he had had the satisfaction of seeing him minutely flinch at them – he had indeed gone back home. He had been denied to spend what could possibly be his last night by his side and was sent to his house in the suburbs, to do what, exactly? Spend a quiet evening at home watching telly? Rub his wife’s swollen feet?

He was in the bathroom, now. He had avoided Mary – but he was tired, so bloody tired of everything, of that stupid charade, of the lies and omissions and the unsaid words. None of it mattered, not any more.

“John?” Mary called.

John sighed. That was all wrong; senseless: him in that bathroom, looking at a man who didn’t recognize in the mirror.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

The door was not locked, but Mary didn’t come in, and he could hear the hesitancy in her voice. No, everything was _not_ okay. Sherlock had flung himself from a bloody rooftop three years before, to protect the people he loved and to defeat Moriarty and the truth was that he was still falling, they all were.

“I’m coming out in a minute.” He said. He splashed some water on his face, shivering at the contact with freezing cold water against his skin. He nodded, once, at the man in the mirror, the one with bruises-like shadows under his eyes and a long day worth of stubble on his face. He closed his eyes, Sherlock was dying. Little by little his body was weakening, succumbing to that bloody drug in his system.

He clenched his fists, against his sides and took a deep breath, before going out of the room. Mary was sitting on the bed, her hands on her belly, the perfect picture of a doting wife and mother-to-be. He wished he still had the strength to hate her, but he couldn’t. He just wanted answers, he just wanted to (save Sherlock, bring him back, stay with him, forget about everything else) end that pantomime.

“Do you want to eat something?” Mary asked.

“I’m not hungry,” John said, debating for a moment whether to undress in front of Mary, deciding against it.

He sat on the other side of the bed, away from Mary. “You look pale.” She said. John shrugged. If Mary thought they would be having small talk she was mistaken. He did not want to hurt the mother of his child, but he was past caring about formalities.

“How is Sherlock?” She asked in a low voice.

“Didn’t Mycroft update you?” He spat.

The words cut through the silence in the room, and John was surprised by how breathless, how furious, how heartbroken all at the same time he was feeling. Mary flinched and turned to face him. John knew, intellectually, that even in her state, she could probably kill him, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was carrying a gun or a knife or a bloody flamethrower, he just did not care.

“How long have you known?” She asked, her voice still soft, her hand still on her belly.

“About what? You might want to be more specific, Mary.” He said. He didn’t raise his voice, that was not going to be a shouting match, he knew that.

“I didn’t know Sherlock was alive,” Mary said. And John was tempted to laugh at her words. He hadn’t even considered that; of all the lies and deceits surrounding his life for the past three years, that was the one thing he had never considered.

“Good.” He said, “What else?”

“It was all in that pen drive,” Mary said.

“I did not read that bloody thing, I’m asking you, now!” John replied.

“How long have you known?” Mary asked again.

John closed his eyes, Sherlock – laying still in that hospital bed, dying because of a drug systematically given to him, his organs (his heart) slowly burning up –, just like Moriarty had promised he would do, that night at the pool. “Yesterday.” He said eventually.

A lie, another one, for Sherlock. Because if Mycroft had sent him home there had to be a reason. There had to.

“I – had to protect you. I did not expect to fall in love with you.” Mary said.

John nodded at her words, “You did, protect me, that is – you saved me.” He said. It was true, he owed her at least that truth.

“What else did Mycroft tell you?” Mary asked.

“Not much. There are other _priorities.”_ John said.

He didn’t expect the look of hurt on Mary’s face at his words, and he couldn’t say he cared.

“He didn’t tell me much. He just told me to resume my assignment.” Mary said.

Good, she was saying the truth, for once. Not that it made any difference to John.

“Sherlock – he is not getting better,” John said.

The words hung between them, heavy and real, and John was surprised by the soft tone of his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. And she sounded sincere, she sounded like she really cared, she sounded indeed sorry about Sherlock – and he...

“It’s a drug, you see? It’s killing him, destroying his body and his mind, they have never seen anything like that…” John said.

He noticed the tears brimming in Mary’s eyes and, for a moment, he genuinely hated her. She had no right to be sorry about the situation. Not after everything, not after all the lies!

“Have you…” He started, he cleared his throat and continued, “have you ever heard of anything like that?”

Mary shook her head. She clasped her hands over her belly and said, “I never used drugs. Not my area.”

“What did you use, Mary?” John asked.

He hadn’t read the file, he hadn’t wanted to know, but part of him was curious, now that there wasn’t a façade to keep up, he wanted to know what she was really capable of.

“Guns, mostly. I was a sniper. Hand to hand. Knives. I never used drugs or poison, and no, I have _no_ clue about who did that to Sherlock!” Mary said, and now he recognized the steel in her voice; it was the same tone she had used with Sherlock that night.

“I wasn’t asking you!” John said.

“John – don’t insult my intelligence!” Mary said. She was angry, but she was still keeping her voice even. John honestly envied her, at that moment.

“Why?” He heard himself say, “It’s all you’ve done since we’ve met. You knew – you had been sent to…”

“I only had to keep an eye on you! Mycroft didn’t know how bad it was for you! What happened had nothing to do with my assignment!”

John shook his head and got up from the bed. Mary had come into his life when he was half mad with grief and remorse; she had brought him back to life, and he could not forget that.

“You know when I really fell in love with you?” Mary asked breaking his train of thoughts.

John shook his head. “It was January – I hadn’t worked long for you. You came early that day, all wet with rain and did your job, but I saw you, during lunch time, you were sitting on your chair, lost in thought, holding a cup of tea. I don’t think you saw me, you were smiling – and I just knew, you know?”

John looked at her. He remembered that day,  it was Sherlock’s birthday; he had forgotten what day it was until it hit him, all of sudden, and he had felt breathless, sitting on his chair, remembering – thinking about the previous year, how he had surprised Sherlock with a cold case, one Lestrade had searched for him, one that had filled Sherlock with an almost childlike glee for hours and John had been happy, reading his paper and sipping his tea, while Sherlock talked and talked about a sixty years old case and how intriguing it was, how that was like Christmas. And it had been – Sherlock had been larger than life, pouring over information as if the case was brand new, and John had felt content, feeling like his life was perfect just the way it was, even if his roommate was crazy, impossible, insufferable and brilliant, oh so brilliant.

“You stopped being an assignment then,” Mary said and John started at her words.

He nodded his head but said, “I was _not_ accusing you. We know who drugged Sherlock.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it? If you know who it is, you can retrieve an antidote! Don’t give up hope, John!” Mary said.

And Jesus, he wished he could believe in her words! He wished he could seek refuge in her arms, but – it was not her he wanted. It was not her he needed. That was the simple truth, it had always been – since their first date, since their first kiss.

“It was Moriarty,” John said. Jim Moriarty – back from the dead somehow, keeping his word to Sherlock, keeping up the game, one that Sherlock hadn’t wanted to play any more.

“You – you said he was dead!” Mary exclaimed. She got up from the bed and John didn’t miss the way she hugged her arms and didn’t even attempt to get close to him.

“I guess we were all wrong, somehow,” John said, “that’s why Mycroft asked you to resume your assignment! I guess I should say thanks.”

“He didn’t tell me he’s alive,” Mary said.

“It doesn’t matter, Mary – really, at this point none of this matters. Once Sherlock dies I don’t think Moriarty will care about any of us!”

Mary recoiled at his words, perhaps at the vehemence in them – or the fact that his voice had broken, he didn’t know – didn’t care. He just wanted to find a cure for Sherlock, he just wanted to undo what Moriarty had done to the man he loved. “Do – you know him?” John asked after a second of silence.

“Who? Moriarty?” Mary asked. She looked almost – scared.

“You were a sniper, he used snipers all the time. He used them on Sherlock and I, once.”

Mary shook her head no, but John took a step toward her, “Are you sure, Mary? Because now it would be a good time to tell, everything could be useful!”

It was stupid, it was the exact opposite of what Mycroft had planned, but he didn’t care, because Mary had shot Sherlock, right in the heart, because she had been an assassin, because she had been good at her job, and if there was even one chance that she might know something useful he couldn’t waste it. Not with Sherlock’s life hanging on the balance.

“No, I don’t know him – ” Mary said in a harsh tone. She took a deep breath and said, “You need to understand this, John – Moriarty could make you very rich, but your life was worth _shit_ once you dealt with him. I heard stories, I knew people who ended up dead for working with him. You didn’t just work for him, he _owned_ you – and I’ve never been that greedy. So, no, I didn’t know him, in fact, I made sure our paths never crossed. I made sure he could never ask for my services!”

John didn’t talk, didn’t reply to Mary and the woman shook her head, smiling bitterly, she sat on the bed and said, “I’ve never worked for Moriarty, John.”

“You shot Sherlock,” John said.

Mary let out a chuckle and said, “You still don’t get it, do you?”

John covered his eyes with his hands for a moment but jerked his head up when Mary said, “If I had worked for Moriarty – I would have killed _you!_ You are Sherlock’s pressure point. You are the most important thing for Sherlock. He staged his death to protect you, he did not deduce me, for you – he didn’t even ask Mycroft about me, did he tell you that?”

John shook his head, “Mary –” he started, but Mary ignored him and said, “I shot Sherlock because that’s who I am, John.”

“You didn’t miss on purpose,” John stated.

Mary tilted her head down, not answering his question.

John let out a chuckle and said, “The day you say you fell in love with me? It was Sherlock’s birthday. He pretends he doesn’t care about these things, but you know him – I was thinking about how happy we had been – you knew what losing him would do to me, you were there, and you still pulled that trigger!”

Mary didn’t reply to him, and John wasn’t sure he would want to hear anything coming from her mouth. He had sort of come clean about Sherlock, he might not have said the exact words, but Mary was not a stupid woman, she had never been. She knew. She had probably always known.

“Why did you come back to me?” Mary asked in a nasal voice. And John thought about lying for a moment, if only for the baby, Mary would buy the lie, he was sure, she would stay by his side, silently supportive while his world fell, once again, apart. But he couldn’t, he loved his unborn daughter and part of him had truly loved Mary – but that charade was over.

“Because Sherlock asked me to – ” He eventually said.

Mary nodded her head, “Of course.” She said.

John saw the tears trailing down her cheeks and dropping on the green jumper she was wearing, she was still hugging her shoulders and was avoiding his gaze. “Want to know what the funniest thing is, John?” Mary asked, and she was looking at him, now, and John noticed that her voice was harsher, lower; he didn’t want to know, not really, but he doubted he had a say in the matter.

“All this time – I knew. I knew he was in love with you, in his own twisted way, I knew the moment I saw him looking at you in the restaurant; I knew about you, I just didn’t think _you_ knew. How tragic that you stopped being in denial now when he’s dying? Sherlock was right, you are a romantic!” She spat the last words, the tears still trailing down her face, one hand on her belly. “I – I think you should go,” Mary said wiping her face with the sleeve of her jumper, and part of John hurt for her because her grief was genuine at that moment; she really was hurt and he was causing that.

She was an assassin, she was dangerous, according to Mycroft, and yet she had mascara smudges on her face and was not moving, she was not attacking him – even though her words were meant to hurt him.

“Mary –” He said.

“Just go – I’ll tell Mycroft,” Mary said.

“What about the baby?” John trailed.

She let out a watery chuckle and said, “Mycroft made abundantly clear that there isn’t a corner on this planet where I could hide without him finding me.”

It wasn’t what John had meant; he hadn’t even thought about that (Sherlock had, probably – that was why he had wanted him to get back with Mary, even though he loved him, even though she had shot him.), he hesitated, for a moment, not knowing what to do or say.

“John – even if I wanted we couldn’t go anywhere. Did you notice the unmarked van outside?” She got up from the bed and walked toward him, “No? I thought so. But even you must have noticed the car parked outside.” John nodded; he had seen the car and had suspected it was one of Mycroft’s people, he had not noticed the van but was not surprised that Mary had.

Mary got close to him; she did not touch him and John saw how tears were still rolling down her cheeks, yet her voice was surprisingly steady when she said, “We are not going anywhere. You, on the other hand, need to leave, now!”

John didn’t move, and Mary let out a sigh before saying, “Really, John – I’m not going to do anything, I won’t need to.”

John took a step back; Mary was smiling through her tears, she looked positively relieved at the idea that he was going to hurt, that he would stand by and look while Sherlock died, he would stop falling and that time there wouldn’t be magic tricks, voices broken with tears and grey skies. He would not hear Sherlock’s voice, not that time.

“I’m going to have a shower,” Mary said, “I don’t want to find you here when I come back.” She stepped back and kept looking at him, even while walking toward the bathroom and John didn’t move, he wasn’t sure he even breathed until the bathroom’s door closed.

He knew that wasn’t over, not really; she was carrying his child – because despite everything he had never doubted _that_ – she would probably do everything she could to make his life impossible or, most probably, she would be happy just to watch him (burn) grieve.

He shook his head, springing into action: Mary didn’t want him there, and he wanted to leave, he didn’t want to think, even if for a few hours, he wanted to go home.

* * *

 

 

> _Strange: the more of hurts I carried_
> 
> _the more beauty showed the land;_
> 
> _What I fought for, gains of merit,_
> 
> _softly falling from my hand._
> 
> **Peter Rosegger** ( _The Other, Too, is You_ )
> 
> **London, July 2011**
> 
>  
> 
> He hadn’t been in London for a long time. Weland had thought he would never see London again and he had been right. He was _not_ seeing London. Not really.
> 
> “We are almost there.” Samuel said from the driver’s seat.
> 
> Weland nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. He should have come back to London sooner; he should have boarded the first plane to London the minute he had seen what was happening during the trial. He had thought Mycroft would protect Sherlock; even he had seen the writing on the wall and had known that Moriarty had something in mind.
> 
> He had stayed in New York to protect Sherlock, because if Mycroft had erased all records of his existence -- and he had, there could only be a reason: Sherlock. How. Fucking. Stupid he had been.
> 
> “Thank you, Samuel.” Weland said.
> 
> The man didn’t reply, but Weland noticed that he was casting worried glances at him through the rear-view mirror; he was tempted for a moment to tell him to stop looking at him, that he was fine, but it would be useless – and a lie. He was _not_ fine. Things were _not_ okay. He had accepted his fate a long time before; he had accepted that his identity, his past, his whole life had disappeared; he hadn’t known the specifics, and considering what his life had been for the past ten years, being a ghost, a man without identity, had had its advantages, one his bosses first, his clients later, had gladly exploited – and Weland had let them.
> 
> He had survived because he was a Holmes and they did not quit, they did not give up, they did not – kill themselves over something so inconsequential as reputation. Especially Sherlock.
> 
> The car slowed down and stopped. Samuel turned toward him and said, “We’re here. CCTV is clear, you can go.”
> 
> Weland shook his head smiling as if he cared about CCTV cameras in a graveyard in the middle of the night! Nevertheless, he thanked Samuel and got out of the car; not surprisingly it was raining: a thick, cold rain that drenched his clothes as he walked toward the grave. With each step he took the absurdity of the situation became more and more vivid; from the moment he had read the news online, to the flow of data he had studied on the plane: a slandering article on a newspaper, truths about Sherlock’s life (except for him: Weland Sherrinford Stewart Holmes, because he did _not_ exist, he _never_ had) intermingled with lies, seeds of doubts that Moriarty had cleverly planted, destroying Sherlock’s reputation bit by bit.
> 
> Sherlock, his brother, was not a fraud. But that was not the point, it had never been, he suspected. There had to be something else. He stopped walking; the grave was there – a black headstone whose inscription he could not read. Not that it mattered. He had already seen it, he had gotten the pictures of the funeral and the headstone: no dates, just Sherlock’s name.
> 
> He cleared his throat. The last time he had seen Sherlock his brother had been beaten within an inch of his life, burning up with fever, looking at him from the helicopter that had taken him away. After that – there had been pictures, information he had gathered through his contacts – and later, when Sherlock had met John Watson, he had read the latter’s blog and his brother’s painfully boring website.
> 
> He had started to feel less worried about Sherlock, for the past year and half, after years of wondering whether he would overdose in some dark alley, or die alone, killed during one of his cases – because John had been there, loyal to a fault, strong and giving Sherlock something to live for, making Sherlock _feel._
> 
> “I don’t believe it.” Weland said. “You wouldn’t do that. You didn’t do that _before_ when you did cocaine and every other bloody shit under the sun. You would not do that, now. What happened?”
> 
> He took a step toward the headstone and touched it. He had seen the pictures of the funeral, both the ones that had appeared on newspapers and those his contacts had taken; there had been more people than he had thought there would be: clients, he supposed, people Sherlock had helped, John Watson standing still and pale under a grey sky, Mycroft, looking like the usual smarmy arsehole – but their parents had _not_ been there, which had raised Weland’s alarms when he had seen the pictures, even while his mind was still stuck in a loop of disbelief and grief.
> 
> “You would want to have the last word against that psychopath – you are _not_ a coward, Sherlock. You have always been stupidly brave, I don’t buy it, little brother. Flinging yourself from a rooftop? How fucking melodramatic of you!”
> 
> He still didn’t have all the details, just the official Scotland Yard reports, which didn’t tell him a lot, except that John Watson had witnessed his brother’s suicide. It had been the second thing that hadn’t made sense to him because his brother _loved_ John Watson. It didn’t exactly take his siblings’ superior intellect to understand that. Sherlock wouldn’t have killed himself in front of John Watson. It was as simple as that. And there was something else – something he couldn’t voice while looking at that headstone, something that perhaps only Mycroft had seen: Sherlock had been happy, content – in all the pictures he had seen, in all the comments in John Watson’s blog and on his own website, in the footage he had seen on the internet; Sherlock had been different, he wouldn’t have given up on that – he wouldn’t have lost the match against Jim Moriarty, because his life was, for once, good – like it had been before their last mission together or, perhaps, even better.
> 
> “I don’t have your brains, brother mine, but I know when things don’t add up. I know you. You…would not leave him unless you had to. What happened, Sherlock? What did you do this time?”
> 
> His mind was spinning, but he was dimly aware of Samuel’s presence behind him; good Samuel, who had been his handler, his guardian angel – his saviour, for close to ten years.
> 
> “Thank you.” He said, without looking at the man who took a step forward, shielding him with an umbrella.
> 
> “What I don’t understand…” Samuel said after a moment, “is your elder brother’s involvement. It does not make sense.”
> 
> Weland didn’t turn, focusing on the headstone, on how the raindrops almost sparkled under the night sky.
> 
> Mycroft. Yes. As usual Samuel got straight to the point, that was one of the reasons why they worked so well together. He was right; of course he was – Mycroft would never make such stupid mistakes as he apparently had done in regards to Jim Moriarty. He would never sell Sherlock out. Anybody else? Surely and without second thoughts, but Sherlock was different. He had always been. Sherlock was and had always been Mycroft’s pressure point, even when they were kids, even after he had climbed the ranks of the British government.
> 
> “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense.” Weland said.
> 
> Mycroft would have killed Jim Moriarty a thousand times over before allowing him to harm Sherlock.
> 
> “He would have intercepted Sherlock before he went up that roof. It was a constant battle, a game between them, they said or did things, but they always meant the exact opposite. And also, Mycroft has always been an overprotective arsehole."
> 
> “Charming,” Samuel said and Weland chuckled, even if his eyes stung and he was touching his baby brother’s headstone. And it did not make any sense.
> 
> “You have no idea.” He said eventually.
> 
> “Such a show, in front of witnesses, such bad decisions one after another, coming from two highly intelligent individuals – I don’t know, Weland, I don’t know your family, but I know the game…”
> 
> “I thought you would say: people change, Weland. A promise made under extreme circumstances is worth fuck all. There was a body and an autopsy report.”
> 
> “Well, I didn’t see the body, did you?” Samuel said, “ In fact, according to the Scotland Yard report no one, except for the medical examiner, saw the body.”
> 
> “What are you implying, Samuel?” Weland asked.
> 
> He knew what his friend was implying, but he wanted to hear it because he was an irrational man who refused to believe that his baby brother had killed himself, but Samuel was not biased. Samuel stuck to the facts, as always.
> 
> “Nothing at the moment. We don’t have enough data yet.” The older man said; and Weland knew that tone of voice, he was pretty sure that if he turned he would see the frown he got when he was considering options, evaluating data or came up with a way to save both their backsides during their assignments.
> 
> “But?” Weland asked. He turned and there was indeed a frown marring his brow and that look in his blue eyes.
> 
> Samuel shook his head, “What do you think, Weland?”
> 
> “It doesn’t matter what I think; sentiment might cloud my judgment,” Weland said.
> 
> Samuel scoffed and said, “Right. _Sentiment._ Your Christmas dinners must have been delightful.”
> 
> Weland smiled and turned, looking at the headstone. “They weren’t boring…”
> 
> He let his fingers graze the cold headstone before saying, “As you said we lack data. We need the CCTV footage, the other reports, I want to see them on the way back to New York.”
> 
> “When are we going back?” Samuel asked.
> 
> Weland squared his shoulders, “Today – but I want to stop somewhere else, first.”
> 
> “Where?” Samuel asked.
> 
> “Baker Street. I just – want to see where my brother lived.” Weland said.
> 
> They started to walk back toward the car; he was smiling, despite the rain, despite the fact that he had no idea what mess his brother had gotten himself into that time.
> 
> “Do you think it’s wise?” Samuel asked.
> 
> “Does it look like I care?” Weland asked back, he was grinning now.
> 
> “Selective sentiment, I see,” Samuel said.
> 
> They stopped in front of the car, Samuel closed the umbrella and opened the door.
> 
> “I’m sorry?” Weland asked.
> 
> “I mean that you are, as usual, a demanding arsehole, but also a softie who wants to see where his baby brother lived,” Samuel said, but he was smiling, “now, get in the car – oh, and you’re driving this time. I have work to do, those CCTV footage and reports won’t hack themselves into your laptop!”
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _And why it is that I myself_
> 
> _So languishing should be?_
> 
> _And why it is, my heart of hearts,_
> 
> _That thou forsakest me?_
> 
> - **Heinrich Hein** ( _Why the Roses are so Pale_ )
> 
> **London, 2014**
> 
> His name was Kyle Nelson. It hadn’t taken long to find that out. The constant flow of data that his employees and Weland (there was still a slight sense of disbelief every time he received a text from him) had gathered had been helpful.
> 
> Mycroft Holmes had been in the game for a very long time; long enough to understand the fine intricacies of it, the necessity of obfuscation, deceit, of lying and of plausible deniability. He would have done the same – had the situation been reversed. He had done the same; that was why part of him wasn’t taking the lies he had been told by the Americans personally.
> 
> The other part of him, though: the man, the brother who hadn’t left that military hospital structure ever since Sherlock had been brought in, who had taken John’s harsh words with silence when he had sent him home, was seething with rage.
> 
> He was a powerful man; only few people were really aware of how far his reach extended: one of them lied in a hospital bed, dying, the other was at his side, working on her BlackBerry, quiet and efficient as always – and then there had been Jim Moriarty. He didn’t feel powerful at the moment; quite the contrary – and that was not a feeling he was comfortable with.
> 
> “Sir,” Anthea said (she always called him sir while on official capacity – and he called her, even in his mind, by one of the aliases she used – even when they were alone, like in that moment), “You should see this.”
> 
> She was sitting next to him, at Sherlock’s bedside, official capacity or not, there was concern in her eyes as she handed him her mobile phone. Her _personal_ mobile phone; there weren't lingering touches, those would never be allowed, but her concern for him (caring was not an advantage, but sometimes he understood why Sherlock had done what he had done, why Weland had stayed behind and had accepted to become a ghost – and how peculiar a feeling to be _loved_ by someone was.).
> 
> It was a long text, sent to Anthea’s personal blackberry. Which was a message in itself, he supposed.
> 
> _Heard your little brother is indisposed. Heard that he lost his mind, that his organs are cooking up and his blood is turning into Jell-O. Heard that there is a way to wake sleeping beauty up before he burns to a crisp. There are conditions, though._
> 
> He was _not_ a creature of instinct. He relied on facts, on logic, yet there were no doubts in his mind that it was Jim Moriarty. Anthea (Andrea) was looking at him, but Mycroft didn’t look at her, he didn’t even look at Sherlock; of course there were conditions. Terms. It was a game, one whose rules they kept rewriting. He was about to reply when a new message popped up
> 
> _Tick-tock, Ice Man. Little brother isn’t going to heal himself._
> 
> Making a deal with Jim Moriarty was out of the question. He had pretended to do so once because it had been part of the plan. To compromise with him, for real, meant giving him even more power than he already had. The solution was simple, really – taking away Moriarty's leverage by refusing to deal with him.
> 
> He could see it – he could see hunting down the Irish man, _after,_ with everything he had: every resource, every man and woman until there was nothing left of him. He could. He could make him pay, after. Because it would become a personal matter to him. That was the logical thing to do: let Sherlock die, because one life alone was not more important than whole nations than millions of lives. It had been his mantra for half of his life, it had become second nature for him.
> 
> He didn’t look at Sherlock, he didn’t need to; he knew how pale his little brother looked, how thin and frail, he knew that his organs were being damaged by a fever that they couldn’t break, no matter how much they tried. He knew that the first organs to fail would be his kidneys, then his pancreas, liver, his lymphatic system, his heart and lungs and finally his brain.
> 
> Doctor Campbell had explained in painstaking detail what Sherlock would face for the next twelve hours unless they found a way to counteract the effects of the toxin. He had already made arrangements with the Doctor to ease Sherlock’s suffering. That was the main reason why he had sent John Watson home to his wife.
> 
> He didn’t need to look at his brother, he could hear him dying and, for some reason, he could only think about a child with bright eyes who had fancied himself to be a pirate, a dragon slayer – who had played with his siblings and had not been aware of how special, unique he was. He thought about the young man who had been forlorn, bitter, too jaded – and the one who had travelled the world playing the game, out of boredom and bitterness, who had served his country and had saved lives and had laughed with him and Weland.
> 
> He thought about the broken man who had told him he would never forgive him, but had nevertheless asked for his help because he was still his big brother. He would always be.
> 
> _What are your conditions?_
> 
> Four words. Against logic, against reason of state, against common sense. He felt Anthea tense next to him, but he ignored her, cradling the phone in his hand.
> 
> _His pet doctor for the antidote. I still want to play._
> 
> Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at the text: how peculiar a request. Moriarty (and it had to be him, no one would be that _daft_ to threaten again John Waton’s life. Not after the last time.) He felt Anthea’s hand on the armrest of the chair, she didn’t move it closer. That, alone, was more than enough.
> 
> “Sir…” She said.
> 
> “You will have to change your personal number – you need to find out how it came into his possession.” He said, without looking at her, “Arrange protection detail for you, grade three, active."
> 
> “Yes, sir.” She said. She was a professional, as always, but Mycroft heard the subtle hitch in her voice – and from her hand, still on the armrest of his chair, he knew she wanted to add something else, but was refraining from doing so.
> 
> Smart, loyal woman. He took a deep breath and swiftly composed his answer.
> 
> _That can be arranged. But I need guarantees._
> 
> The reply was immediate.
> 
> _Of course. Instructions will follow shortly. Tricks will be frowned upon, Mr. Holmes. Let’s be very clear on this. See you soon :)_
> 
> He handed the mobile back to Anthea, and took his own from the pocket of his jacket and quickly composed another text, to Weland that time. Only then did he finally look at Sherlock whom, of course, hadn’t moved a muscle since the last time he had looked at him.
> 
> “Mycroft –” Anthea said. That had _never_ happened. He turned and looked at the woman who was looking at him, her chair at a respectable distance from his own. “He will never forgive you if you do this.” She said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
> 
> Mycroft nodded. He turned and looked at Sherlock, plans already forming in his head, he felt her hand leaving the armrest of the chair as she worked on her mobile.
> 
> “I know.” He said, “But he will be alive.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned;” He hadn’t even realized he had spoken at first; when he did he looked at Mycroft and said, “It was his favourite poem.”

The room smelled like Sherlock. That was the first thing John realized when he opened his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed the smell when he had gotten inside the room, the night before; he had fallen asleep, still dressed, the moment his head had hit the pillow, Sherlock’s pillow, his body just shutting out. He had never slept in Sherlock’s bed and while he opened his eyes he thought about the irony of it all. He had slept in Sherlock’s bed, with his hand holding tight a mobile phone, waiting for a phone call. _The_ phone call. _The_ words, while surrounded by Sherlock’s belongings, by the remains of his smell. In the end Baker Street had been the only possible solution, the only place where John could go.

Mycroft had forbidden him to go back to the base, maybe as a punishment for the colossal fuck up with Mary or for some other reason that he had been simply too tired to even contemplate or really care about. He was still holding the mobile phone and was blinking his eyes, trying to adjust to the half darkness in the room. A glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, told him that it was thirty minutes past midnight; he had just slept for a few hours then.

He blinked again, not moving. In just a few more seconds and he would get up, he would have to face – that night, in the flat, alone, waiting for Mycroft to call, he would have to – watch Sherlock die, most probably. Unless a miracle happened, another one. He let out a breath and willed his body to move; he sat on the bed, looking around. Even after Sherlock had – _fallen,_ he hadn’t spent time in that room to collect Sherlock’s things, somebody else had; putting Sherlock’s things in boxes, sorting through his personal effects, not in search of drugs, like he had done a few times, but to put them away had been intolerable to John. It still was, truth to be told, yet his eyes were lingering on every object and he could not tear his eyes away. He got up and moved, touching Sherlock’s robe at the foot of the bed, his lips curling in a smile, even though he was feeling out of breath.

He took some steps toward Sherlock’s desk: his wallet, mobile phone and note book were on it; Sherlock must have left them there before leaving, before going and look for Moriarty. One of the drawers was half opened and John, still holding his mobile phone in his left hand, opened it. He knew what was inside that drawer or, at least, he used to, when he lived with Sherlock: three of his newest notebooks with details of cases and experiments scrawled on them, a tin box containing fake id cards and an old knife. What surprised John was seeing an old, battered copy of Goethe’s Faust; he had seen it around in the flat through the years, he had never seen Sherlock actually read it – or any other piece of literature, for that matter. He took the book in his hand, frowning, and was about to put it down when he heard a noise, a shuffle, coming from the sitting room.

He sighed, it was not Mrs. Hudson, she always announced her presence, he recognized the sounds she made. It was not someone sent by Mycroft, he would have warned him. He briefly pondered whether it could be Mary, but decided against it. Mary would be there, probably to gloat, with his child in her arms after, when his world was going to fall to pieces. No, it was something else – someone else, a couple of people, possibly, and John felt a ghost of anticipation, a familiar thrill but, above all, he was angry. So fucking angry! He rested the book on Sherlock’s desk and it only took him a second to take his gun, safely tucked away in the inner pocket of his coat. Normally he would pause and assess the situation, but he was too angry to stop and think, to decide to surprise whoever was in the sitting room. He got out of the room, even if there weren’t lights on in the flat, but only those coming from the street and the hallway outside, he could immediately make out that there were three people, not two as he had thought, in the sitting room and one of them was Molly Hooper, held at a gunpoint, her hands tilted up.

One of the men was behind her, he was pointing a gun at the back of her head. The man was middle aged, of average height, lean, he was wearing a black pea-coat, he had greying hair slicked back, he wore spectacles and gave him a polite nod of his head when he saw him. The other man pointing the gun at Molly didn’t even look at him when he said, “Oh, hello Dr. Watson. You might want to take that gun down. We need to talk!”

“Right –” John said walking toward the men and Molly (what the hell was Molly doing there anyway?), “you gentlemen first!”

“John…” Molly said. She was clearly afraid, but also looked sorry about the predicament. John saw the two men exchange a quick glance then the older man lowered his gun while the other turned, lowering the gun as he did so.

John blinked his eyes, perhaps it was due to the fact that the lights weren’t on and the shadows that London projected in the flat that sharpened the man’s feature, making his cheekbones even more chiselled and his lips into a thin, hard line. He couldn’t say how old the man was, but to John, for a moment, the man almost looked like a statue sculpted in steel; he was so still that his very shadow seemed to want to rebel, moving as the lights from the cars that were passing outside lit the room and dancing over Molly, who was frozen in fear.

Moriarty had been crazy, Magnussen a petty, cruel bastard, but the man in front of him was something completely different. The man in front of him was dangerous and lethal. He reminded John of the kind of soldiers that soldiers like him used to fear – because they knew, deep down, that they’d understand them only if something inside of them broke.

And the part of John who had never really left the battlefield thought that it was probably the case with that man – he was…broken, and put back together in a way he wouldn’t have wanted to find out. It didn’t matter that his features were so stern or that he was tall – taller than Sherlock even, it didn’t even matter that his hand was steady while holding the gun or the fact that he was wearing black, thin leather gloves. No – it was something else that he recognized in the man – how he had been broken and put back together that made him dangerous; he saw another glimpse in his blue eyes, when the older man turned on the light.

The look in that man’s eyes showed him what his black gloves and almost military posture couldn’t – and it was something that under other circumstances would have filled him with an almost primeval fear: that man was a killer. The man took the gun away, placing it in the waistband of his black trousers, looked at him, then at Molly and said, “Apologies, Mr. Watson, m’am. You’re clearly not the landlady, nor Mr. Watson’s wife. Who are you?”

“Just – who the hell are you?” John exclaimed.

The man had a British accent, impeccable manners, but his words, how did he know about Mary?

“I’m a friend of John and Sherlock’s” Molly said. She was still afraid and John wondered, again, what the hell she was doing at the time of the night in Sherlock’s flat.

“A friend.” The man said, sounding surprised.

John wanted very much to shoot him, on principle! “Yes. Mrs. Hudson called me. Oh, John –” She ignored the man and looked at John and he recalled that Molly was their friend.

Sherlock had trusted her three years before and she had kept him alive, had made it all possible – and even if a tiny part of John would always resent Molly for her role in Sherlock’s staged suicide, he was also grateful to her, because she had saved Sherlock, she had saved them all.

“It’s ok, Molly.” John said. No, it was not and, apparently, all the people in the room knew it, because the younger man subtly cocked an eyebrow, then looked at Molly and said, “You are the pathologist!”

Molly nodded, and John thought, for a moment, that she was holding her own remarkably well, considering that she’d been just held at a gunpoint and the man seemed to know an awful lot about them.

“You helped Sherlock.” The man said. And John was getting tired of the man’s words and how he looked at ease in the sitting room, a light smile playing on his lips while he talked to Molly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Molly said, thrusting her chin up. Because she would always stick up for Sherlock. She had lied to everyone in order to help him and she would keep doing so.

The man smiled, no – he actually grinned at her and said, “Of course.”

“Who the hell are you?” John asked. Again. He was still holding his gun, and he hadn’t missed how the older man was keeping an eye on him, ready to intervene should he do anything.

“I believe Mycroft might have told you about me.” The man said.

He wasn’t smiling any more. He had moved some steps toward him and he meant business, now. “You are –” John trailed, but stopped when the man subtly pointed toward Molly, who was looking at them, worry and confusion on her face. “Long story short: not dead.” The man – Weland, Sherlock’s brother, said. Using the exact same words Sherlock had in that restaurant. Apparently being unable to die and being jerks about it ran in the family.

“I think – I need a drink.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Weland said, “and then we need to talk. Samuel, would you be so kind as to stop scowling at Ms. Hooper? Mr. Watson, John…” he pointed at the kitchenette.

“I was thinking about something stronger, to be honest.” John said, but he was already following Weland in the kitchenette.

Weland closed the doors and said shrugging, “Okay. You can drink yourself stupid, but I was rather hoping we could save my brother.” Weland brushed past him and, acting as if he owned the place, and as he had anticipated, he put the kettle on.

“Mycroft said –” John trailed.

Weland crossed his arms over his chest, John noticed he still hadn’t taken his leather gloves off, and said, “Sod what Mycroft said! I’m not letting Sherlock die, John. I thought we might be on the same page on this. Am I wrong?”

John took a step toward the man, he had said those words matter-of-factly. He wasn’t even supposed to be alive and yet, here he was, in his kitchen, determined to do whatever he could to save Sherlock. Determined to act, not to stand by and watch him die. “What do you want me to do?” John asked.

He could feel hope, a tiny glimmer of it, in his heart. Maybe they hadn’t run out of miracles, after all. Maybe they could still save Sherlock.

“Drink your tea – then I’ll text Mycroft, we need to get this show on the road.”

* * *

 

 The thing was – Weland was retired. He really was; he had paid his dues, shed enough blood to last a lifetime, killed and hurt enough people, whether for necessity, on the line of duty or in his darker years that he had truly thought he could be a civilian.

He had a life, more or less, in New York – he owned a fucking library, for God’s sake! But he had kept looking out for Moriarty and his associates, because his gut told him to. Mycroft had his fingers in a lot of pies, but Weland – he hadn’t survived that long, against impossible odds, without having his own network of contacts, people who owed him favours, people to whom he owed favours, and a few, selected, trusted allies.

Having trusted contacts in his home country, people in the know who discreetly had kept him informed about Sherlock since his return had paid off on Boxing day, when he had been alerted that his baby brother had apparently killed a man in cold blood, in front of witnesses and was now held in an MI6 holding facility. Even before he heard and saw Moriarty’s viral video, he was already in London, gathering info, already planning how to intervene, should Mycroft somehow fuck it up; and he had – he had the minute he had assigned Sherlock to get rid of Magnussen; he had been in the game, in one way or another, for far too long, not to recognize an unofficial assignment when he saw it.

He hadn’t even particularly cared about why Sherlock had accepted what it looked like a delicate and dangerous assignment (he had a few theories, all of them involving John Watson’s recent nuptials) or why Sherlock had eventually shot Magnussen (he had lots of theories, some of them involving John Watson, others going back to Sherlock’s adolescence and how he had never fit in, how he had always loathed people who preyed on people’s secrets); it hadn’t really mattered, because Moriarty’s viral message had thrown a wench in whatever plan Mycroft had had for Sherlock.

The minute he had seen Moriarty’s video he had known that things would get very nasty, very fast – and there was no way he would stand by and watch, not after last time. In hindsight, he knew he had been too rash, he knew he had made a mistake, getting too close to Sherlock in Dublin. But how was he to know that Sherlock was being systematically drugged? How was he to know that seeing him would accelerate what Moriarty – or whoever the fuck was behind that stunt – was doing to Sherlock?

Mycroft had succinctly told him, through text, no less, what Sherlock had really done in 2002, why it had been necessary for his identity to be deleted. He had suspected something similar, of course, but to read the words, on Sherlock’s i-phone, had been surreal and had made him even angrier.

Being angry was good, it kept him going, it kept him focused. Mycroft had a lot on his plate, saving Sherlock was just one of the consequences of what Moriarty was doing and he was overseeing things while not leaving Sherlock’s side, crash coursing John Watson in some truths about Sherlock and their family and dealing with the normal stuff he usually dealt with.

And there were, of course, the texts he had been sending him for the past forty minutes or so, one more frustrating than the other. He still hadn’t heard his brother’s voice – but he supposed that there would be time, later, for talking. It had been Mycroft who had told him that John Watson was in Baker Street, after all the data they had all been digging had pointed toward one man and Moriarty, apparently, had made his move. After that, after Mycroft's increasingly annoying texts, Weland was finally getting the ball rolling; it wasn't the best laid out operation he had ever been part of, its potential consequences could be dire, he knew that, but at that point did it really matter?

 _Just keep him alive._ He had written to Mycroft.

 _I’m doing all I can, brother mine_. Mycroft had replied – calling him _brother_ for the first time in twelve years.

John Watson was a peculiar man; but he already knew that, he could see why his brother had fallen for him - _literally,_ the melodramatic idiot! – but what mattered the most to Weland, at the moment, was that John Watson was a soldier and used to be good at killing, probably he still was; he was ready and willing to do whatever it took to save Sherlock; sentiment, however dangerous, was an excellent motivator.

John and Ms. Hooper, Molly – Weland corrected himself, were sitting on the couch, and were having a whispered conversation Weland wasn’t really following; it was filled with a lot of medical terms and even though it involved Sherlock, he didn’t really need to know the details. He was not a medical doctor or a chemist; he could kill the people who had done that to Sherlock, bash their heads in, break their bones, but he didn’t know what was happening to his little brother’s body.

“Do you have it here?” Molly asked suddenly.

John looked at him, and his tone of voice was neutral when he said, “Yes. Mycroft gave it to me, it’s – in Sherlock’s bedroom.”

Weland cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Hopefully there would be time, he thought, _after_ they found the antidote for Sherlock to corner John Watson about Sherlock and embarrass both of them about it. John left the sitting room and Weland smiled at Molly who shyly smiled back before starting to rummage through her enormous bag, looking for something.

Samuel was checking something on his i-pad; he was probably making good use of the temporary high-level clearance Mycroft had given him.

“Ah! I knew I still had it!” Molly exclaimed, taking a folder from her bag, just when John returned with a thick folder and sat next to her.

He sighed; he could hear time clicking by, every minute felt heavier and heavier – ever since Sherlock had stumbled out from the building he had been staying in, in Dublin, drugged, scared, burning up with fever, Weland had been acutely aware of time, of every minute, feeling them like a failure to help his siblings. Samuel was looking at him, he knew that, and Weland hissed, “Don’t!”

That caught both Molly and John’s attention, while they were both reading the documents that they had spread on the coffee table.

“I’m not saying anything.” Samuel said in a placating tone.

“Good.” Weland snapped. That was definitely not the time for one of Samuel’s lectures about pulling “a Jack Bauer” !

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“Nothing. Would you mind tell us what are you doing?” Weland said, he looked at Samuel and added, “you too.”

“Hopkins and Fielding have set up shop.” Samuel said.

"Situation?" Weland asked.

"Lights and sounds are under control. Target is watching a rerun of The X-Factor." Samuel said and then went back to his i-pad, even though Weland knew that he would keep casting glances at him, trying to determine if he could carry on the task ahead or, more simply, if he was okay. He wasn’t, but that, too, could wait.

John was looking at them with interest and confusion, but Weland had no time to delve into how they had located the building and the man who had physically provided the drug to the kids in Dublin.

“Right –” John said, “I was telling Molly about Sherlock, about the effects of the drug or toxin or whatever it is and she said she had seen it before.”

“Have you?” Weland asked looking at the woman; Molly who had been observing the files spread on the coffee table looked up, a slight flush colouring her cheeks, but her voice was steady when she said, “I did – the first time was at the end of November: it was a homeless man, I didn’t perform the autopsy myself, but I read the file, it was on my desk and the way that poor man died, it looked like liver cirrhosis, at least that’s what the pathologist wrote down in his report, but the blood work didn’t add up. The second one came in ten days later, it was a woman, a prostitute, she was a drug addict and at first it looked like she had overdosed, but here…” She got up, taking a few sheets of paper and crossed the room to show them to him.

“What am I supposed to look at?” Weland asked. He read the numbers on the sheets of paper and they were similar, disconcertingly so, he looked up at the woman and said, “A cliff notes version would be very much appreciated.”

Molly nodded and said, “There are differences, of course – because the drug has been perfected ever since, but the damage on the organs, on the blood and bone marrow is identical. We didn’t do a MRI scan on the woman, so we don’t know what kind of brain damage, if any she sustained, but look,” she pointed with a finger at a series of formula at the end of both sheets, “that was what we found in that woman’s blood and that’s what is in Sherlock's. We thought it was a new drug, and it is – we had other three bodies wheeled in between the tenth of December and New Year’s Eve.”

“Sherlock left London on New Year’s day.” John said.

Molly turned and looked at John in sympathy, “I wanted to involve Sherlock in this, but – he wasn’t at the flat. No one could tell me where he was. And you didn’t answer your phone.”

“So, we know they were testing the drug, it makes sense, but how does it help us?” Weland asked.

“I – I might have sent some blood samples to some friends of mine.” Molly said, literally shuffling her feet.

“Why?” Weland asked. It didn’t matter, he tried to reason, because what Mycroft had said they lacked was time to analyze the drug and find an antidote or a way to reverse or counteract its effects, and somewhere there were people who had been doing just that for the past month, at least. That could be a decent plan B, if things with the American went south.

“What do you mean why? Scotland Yard thinks it’s just a new drug, but no one important died, no one noticed and they have new drugs on the streets every week – but I thought there was more to it, people were dying – and it was painful and it didn’t make sense!” Molly exclaimed, and Weland was almost tempted to smile at the woman’s words. Sherlock definitely had interesting friends.

“And do you usually send blood samples to your friends when things don’t make sense?” Weland asked.

“No, I call Sherlock to Bart’s.” Molly said, a hint of defiance in her voice, “but I thought three chemists with Ph.Ds from Cambridge would do this time.” She looked at John and as if to justify herself she said, “Sherlock didn’t call back.”

“The video feed.” John only said. She nodded. Of course; Molly Hooper probably knew about Moriarty, since she had helped Sherlock three years before. He took Sherlock’s i-phone from his pocket, noticing the way Molly was looking at it, she had recognized the phone – and she was probably wondering why he had it.

“I need to know your friends’ names, where they work and we need everything they have, now Molly!" “Who are you?” She asked, still looking at Sherlock’s i-phone in his gloved hand.

“He’s on our side.” John said, “Molly, please...”

Molly nodded, she went to the coffee table and took another sheet, holding it to him, “Here.” She said, “I wrote them down while you were in the kitchen. Will – can you help Sherlock?”

Weland shrugged his shoulders, “I’m doing all I can. We all are.”

Apparently, though, it was time to stop using text to communicate with Mycroft. He got up from his chair, he handed the sheet to Samuel ignoring his concerned glances, and said, “Send this to Mycroft. Situation?”

“Will do. We are waiting for instructions. Your instructions.” Samuel said.

“Right – I need to make a phone call, first.” Weland said, and if his voice had come out a bit cracked, he doubted either John or Molly had noticed, as for Samuel he would refrain from going mother hen on him, until after they found the cure for Sherlock.

He went into the kitchenette and closed the doors behind him. It was a few minutes past one, they hadn’t been there long, but Weland knew they didn’t have much time. Yet, he held his phone in his hand for a moment, before dialling the second number on Sherlock’s speed dial.

“Weland.” Mycroft said as a greeting. His voice was calm, even, and Weland smiled. Did he really expect to hear an edge in Mycroft’s voice?

“I have sent you an address and some names, send your people over there. Try not to scare them too much, they’re friends of Molly Hooper’s.” Weland said, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu, except that back in the day it was usually Mycroft who told him either not to scare or hurt people unless absolutely necessary.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mycroft said drily, and Weland couldn’t help a small smile.

“We’re leaving as soon as we hang up.” Weland said.

“You know that I can’t officially –” Mycroft started.

“I don’t even _exist,_ officially.” Weland said, “But I’d appreciate a weather eye on CCTV. We got the rest covered already.”

He heard Mycroft typing something, then his voice, muffled, giving orders, and then he said, “Done.”

“Good.” Weland said, he looked around for a moment, smiling despite himself at how much his surroundings were filled with Sherlock’s presence, with the life he had built for himself in that flat and he was suddenly so angry that his hands started shaking.

“Pull yourself together, Weland. Now it is not the time.” Mycroft said. But his voice had dropped, losing some of that obnoxious, patronizing tone he always had.

Weland nodded his head, he looked around and said, “Please, tell me you don’t have Sherlock’s flat bugged.”

“Of course I do, but I also recall your breathing patterns.” Mycroft said.

“If it didn’t come from you it would sound creepy as fuck, just so you know, brother.” Weland said, but he felt calmer, more centered than he had felt for days. He could practically hear Mycroft’s dramatic eye roll, but the thing was – that he recalled Mycroft’s breathing patterns as well, and he sounded a fraction more relaxed, now.

“How is he?” Weland asked, satisfied by how steady and calm his voice sounded.

“He’s – fighting. His body temperature hasn’t spiked for the past hour, but according to his doctor, though, his kidneys should shut down in the next hour, two at most.”

“It won’t come to that.” Weland said.

Mycroft didn’t answer; unfortunately his elder brother had never been able to stop using logic, to stop relying on balance of probability – he was the living proof, though, that sometimes balance of probability could go and fuck itself.

“I hope you’re right, Weland.” Mycroft said, “Do think about the options at hand. Consider the risks."

“I am, you bastard.” Weland hissed.

That was all he had been thinking since the first, short clipped text he had received from Mycroft: thinking and considering all the options.

“Good.” Mycroft said, ignoring his insult, before hanging up. Weland let out a breath and squared his shoulders. Time to visit an American.

 

* * *

 

_Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape._

_It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,_

_Have always known, know that we can’t escape,_

_Yet can’t accept._

_One side will have to go._

_Philip Larkin, **Collected Poems**_

 

The texture of his mind palace was weakening; lights were slowly dimming, that could only mean that his body was dying. Sherlock had experienced it before, although there had been more physical pain the last time. He was surprised realizing that he did not want to die. He had never been scared of death, had looked at it in the eye, had investigated its effects for too long to be afraid of ceasing to exist. It wasn’t fear, it was simply an almost childish mantra of, “There is still too much to do. It is too soon.”

He did not want to die locked in his mind, that was simply unacceptable. He was reasonably sure he was not trapped in his hallucination any longer; he had gotten out, Weland had helped him. He recalled his name now, he knew that he had met him before, there was a sense of familiarity, surrounding the man that Sherlock still couldn’t place, that kept eluding him. He didn’t remember how and why he knew him, though.

He wasn’t sure he could trust the images and sounds he had experienced, not while locked in his mind. Most importantly, though, he didn’t want to die because of John; he did not want to leave John Watson, not again – not while Mary was still alive and could harm him, not when he wasn’t sure whether Moriarty was really dead, because he couldn’t trust his memories, not the ones of his stay Dublin. They had still so much to do, to experience together.

He had said once that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, but John had showed him the fallacy of his reasoning time and again. He not only didn’t want to die, he wanted to live. (with John, at Baker Street, with warm silences and fights and tea and toast and John’s smell, and the love that extraordinary man felt for him that was better of any high he had ever experienced, it was never boring, never dull – it was humbling.)

He still didn’t know what 14M2 was supposed to mean. But Weland (his own subconscious) had, nevertheless, been helpful. It had reminded him of a tale, read when he was a child; had it been his mum or his dad who had read him the story of Ali Baba and the forty thieves? For some reason the details were hazy, but much like “Open, Sesame!”, whispering that basic alphanumeric code, which had been one of his passwords for years, had made a handle appear on the door.

His mind had kept going back to that hallway, in front of that previously hidden door, and Sherlock had never believed in coincidences. He could hear a faint hiss and whirr of a respirator, of an ecg machine of other machines; he listened to those sounds finding comfort in them. The door was not locked, he had half expected more difficulty than a simple string of three numbers and a letter; he did not recognize his surroundings, even though he must have created what it looked like an endless corridor filled to the brim with shelves containing square, black boxes.

He had obviously created that room, he recognized the architecture of it, the basic skeleton of all the rooms in his mind palace: places he knew, that had some meaning for him – but there was something different in that space, a lack of attention for the details, that made him uneasy, for some reason.

 _“This_ makes you uneasy?” John asked.

He was behind him, and Sherlock didn’t even turn, smiling at the man’s words. There was fondness and exasperation in John’s words; he didn’t move as John walked to him.

“I don’t remember creating this room, I don’t recognize this place.” Sherlock said. It was unbelievably frustrating to have such large gaps in his memory, but he realized that he did not have the time to really dwell on it.

“It looks like a storehouse to me.” John said, “There are a lot of unlabeled boxes, I don’t suppose there is an archive or something similar in the room?”

“I have no idea. As I said –” Sherlock trailed, but John said, “You don’t remember. Yes, I know. Why are we here, Sherlock?”

“I’m dying.” Sherlock said, turning to look at him.

John was dressed like the day they had met, but there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there that day, there was more grey in his hair. The look in his eyes was a mixture of “not good, Sherlock!” and “I don’t believe you.” and Sherlock couldn’t help a little smile when he said, “I don’t want to die, John. Not here.”

“Then why are we here?” John asked.

There was a note of pleading in his voice, of wanting to understand him, without succeeding, of urgency. John Watson – a constant kaleidoscope of emotions, always carefully kept under check, but so intense that even he could recognize them, catalogue them – bask in them. _Because Weland brought me here and I trust him,_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say that name, not in that room. He was tongue tied. And that never happened to him.

“Let’s find the data, then –“ John said.

Somehow John’s words, echoing his thoughts, put a smile on his lips, even though he wished he was with the real John, who saw but did not observe, but nevertheless managed to be brilliant and unique all the same.

“It might not wake me up, you know that.” Sherlock said. John gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

_And I said “dangerous”, and here you are..._

“I meant to say that meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, that day.” Sherlock said and he knew that saying those words to that John, the one in his mind palace was not the same as telling to the real one, but he felt like he should say something.

John looked at him, “That’s not what you meant to say and we both know it. But you wanted to see him smile. And you were afraid.” He said. He was right, of course, at least in part.

“It is the truth, though.” Sherlock only said and then added, “And I want to kiss you again. Kiss you properly.” _That_ was the truth. It was disgustingly sentimental, but one of the reasons he wanted to live was because he wanted to kiss John again, properly, in their flat, without tasting his fear and without shadows.

“Then do something about it, Sherlock! Look around: maybe this room can wake you up somehow. Maybe it is a backdoor of sort.” John said.

Sherlock looked around, all he could see were black boxes, neatly aligned on those shelves, he could not remember anything about that room, about creating it, but if he had created a code, if he had hidden that room so carefully, he might be able to use it to his advantage.

“Come along, John –” He said, but when he looked to his right, John was gone. He was alone.

He swallowed, his mind going back to that alphanumeric string, suddenly. He would start with that, he thought walking, touching the small square boxes, they were little safes, without any visible lock in them. There were too many of them, all of them black. He walked some steps but then went back and crouched: there on the pavement there was a single box, its black faded to an almost greenish hue. The box wasn’t much bigger than a shoebox, it was cold at the touch and Sherlock noticed that it was heavy, it was so full that even when he shook it, he couldn’t tell what, exactly, there was inside.

The lights flickered, an alarm went off, red intermittent lights bathed the long hallway in sinister hues. He could hear voices: one of them must be his doctor; he was discussing about his kidneys, with urgency in his voice, which was smothered by the loud alarm in the room. If his kidneys were ceasing to function that meant he didn’t have much time left, he got up, holding the box under his arm: he followed the noise, blinking his eyes when images of an almost barren room, was it a hospital room? juxtaposed to the long, endless hallway he was walking into.

_Pale green walls, no windows (he could not be trusted, even though he hadn’t moved a single muscle for days, had felt people moving him to avoid bedsores) a bed, its rails up, an IV in his arm, to feed him, a small bedside table, an ecg machine. He couldn’t feel his own body, even though he was aware of his surroundings. He was in the room, the small room in his mind palace._

He saw, for a moment, the room how it had been when he had created it – but he didn’t know, he couldn’t remember when. There were thousands of boxes on the shelves, they were the only objects whose contours were stark. He walked, while images of the room as it grew, as the boxes piled up on the shelves (he had put them up, one after another) kept juxtaposing to his surroundings. He had been methodical, whatever he had chosen to hide in those boxes he must have spent a lot of time doing so. The alarm was getting louder.

Sherlock couldn’t make out the end of the hallway, but if that room was like any other in the mind palace he knew there would be a back door. He ignored the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It did not matter, his body was dying, what difference would that feeling make? He thought about John, surprised when he could not feel his presence. He was not near his body, someone else was though – was it Molly Hooper? He recognized her smell, that combination of soap, glycerine hand cream, latex and chemical soap. He ignored the sliver of worry he felt for John – he felt his absence, in almost a physical way, nevertheless he kept on walking; the hallway, obviously, was not really endless; he could start to see the end of it, a door, bathed in a that intermittent red light.

The alarm hadn’t stopped, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to it. The door was a perfect replica of the entrance one, Sherlock stopped in front of it, tilting his head down to look at the black box under his arm.

_“You will do as I ask, Mycroft. Next time I talk to you, I shall not remember.”_

He heard his own voice, hoarse with disuse, it echoed in the room when he touched the door with his fingertips. When had it happened? Why couldn’t he remember? What had he done? He examined the box, frowning when he noticed the engraved label on the underside of the box: #1 14 March 2002.

14M2 It was a date, obviously.

But there was nothing special about that date – not that he remembered – he had escaped and been retrieved from an assignment gone awry; there was nothing peculiar about what had transpired that day. There had been physical pain, but that had never held any significance to him.

“Don’t be stupid, brother!” Mycroft’s voice was harsh behind him. Sherlock didn’t even turn. “You wouldn’t have taken this particular box among thousands, in this particular room, if there was nothing peculiar about that date.” Mycroft continued, taking a few steps toward him, “Not that it matters, since you are dying.”

Sherlock turned to his right, Mycroft was looking at the door, “Why can’t I remember?” He asked.

Mycroft looked at him, “It is all here.”

_“Sherlock this is not –” Mycroft started._

_Sherlock interrupted him, “It is. It’s the only way – please, Mycroft.”_

_“On one condition.” Mycroft said._

_The laughter that escaped from his chapped lips surprised him. It was a laughter that tasted of bitter pills on his tongue, it was black, like the darkness in his room while he spent hours breathing, looking at the walls, forbidding himself to sleep._

_“This is not a negotiation.” Sherlock said, tasting blood, he had split his chapped lips._

_“It is – I will abide to your foolish request, but on one condition, Sherlock.”_

_“A condition. Even now you negotiate. How typical!" He seethed._

_Mycroft gave him a half-smile and Sherlock wondered whether he smiled when he decided who lived and who died on an assignment. “Nevertheless you need my help. So,  will you accept my terms?”_

“You made me build something.” Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft. “You asked me to build a way out, to have something to – remember: what was it?”

_“I want to delete everything!” He objected, he didn’t have the strength to shout, but his chest heaved with the effort nevertheless._

_“Why are you asking me this?” He asked. He hated the pleading note in his voice. He hated how broken, how utterly human he sounded. Things had to change. That was the only way. “_

_This is my condition.” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, his voice even, not a hint of emotion in it, “You will have to tell me what it is, I give you my word that I shall never use it, never mention it to you, but I will not allow you to go ahead with your ludicrous idea unless you comply with my request!”_

_“I will never forgive you, Mycroft. For any of this!”_

_Mycroft nodded, “I know.” He said._

_He looked at him expectantly. But Sherlock could see he had hurt him. Good. He deserved to be hurt._

_“I will create a way out, a way to remember and I will give you the code to unlock it.”_

_“You need to decide it beforehand and tell me. Do it now, Sherlock. And do not lie. ” “I’m not you, Mycroft. I don’t lie to my siblings!” He spat, smiling when Mycroft subtly recoiled at his words._

He was shivering, now. The box was heavy in his arms, and Mycroft was looking at the door with a bored expression on his face. “I can’t remember what it is; the code -” Sherlock said.

“You started to in Dublin.” Mycroft said.

“After I saw Wel – him.” Sherlock said. He still couldn’t say that name, it refused to come out. Why?

“Yes.” Mycroft replied, “Therefore?”

“It’s connected to him, I remember having known him, but I still don’t know who he is.” Sherlock said, looking at the box in his hands.

“I don’t, either.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock jerked his head up and Mycroft said, “I only know what _you_ know in this ridiculous place of yours, brother mine.”

The sound of the alarm had faded, Sherlock realized, the texture of his mind palace was coming undone, he could feel it. “Your kidneys are probably failing as we speak. Whatever you plan to do, I’d suggest to do it now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, without looking at Mycroft. He was looking at the black box in his hands, going back with his mind to his stay in Dublin, to everything he could remember about it.

_“Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned;” He hadn’t even realized he had spoken at first; when he did he looked at Mycroft and said, “It was his favourite poem.”_

_“Yes. I remember.” Mycroft said. He tilted his head down, avoiding his gaze._

_Shame. Regret._

_Good. He deserved it. He deserved to *feel*, for once._

_“That’s the code. I will comply to your request. Now leave.” He said._

_He had things to do, it would take time, it would take a lot of work, but he would succeed. Failure was simply unacceptable._

“The poem – I kept thinking about it, even in Dublin, I wrote it down on paper...” Sherlock said, looking at his brother. “What did I do?” He asked.

“You survived, Sherlock.” Mycroft said and, for a moment, he was again the older brother he had idolized when they were kids.

 “What did I delete?” He looked around, the words he had just said sinking, “I didn’t delete anything, did I? I hid it, taking precautions so that I could not find what I had hidden. But what is it?”

“There is only one way to find out, brother mine.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft’s hand rested awkwardly on his shoulder and outside, his brother, was at his bedside, not touching him, but his presence was, for once, welcome. Needed.

When he looked around Mycroft was gone. He was alone. He turned the box in his hands, saying the words of a poem (and he hated poetry, he always had, but someone else didn’t. Someone he had hidden.) until the black box’s lid opened, revealing a key. He took it in his hand; not surprisingly when he looked at the door he saw that it now had a keyhole in it. “There we go.” He said turning the key in the keyhole.

He felt a sliver of fear, because he knew that whatever was on the other side of that door, was going to be painful, so much that his younger self had hidden it. He still had no idea whether crossing that threshold could help him wake up, his body was weakening, dying, but he owed to himself to solve that locked door mystery.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

 


	12. Chapter  12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was sort of pointless, with a gun pointed at my head.” John said, but Weland regaled him with a look, so similar to the ones Sherlock gave to particularly rubbish liars that John had to blink, for a moment.   
> “Right.” Weland said, “A novel and terrifying experience for you. I understand that. It’s not like you were a trained soldier or anything.”

It hadn’t even been twenty minutes since they had left Baker Street, a black car had taken Molly to the base and John had followed Weland and Samuel, his associate, and got into a nondescript black van. Samuel had given him another gun, a revolver with a silencer, and John had accepted it wordlessly. His own gun, the one used to kill Magnussen, had “mysteriously” disappeared from the scene, even before they were carried out of the house, he had been given it back, but he knew that using it that night would definitely attract the kind of attention none of them needed.

“Where are we going?” John asked.

Weland was driving, while Samuel was checking something on a laptop. The inside of the van looked like it had come out from a Mission Impossible movie: it was full of electronic equipment and weapons and John wondered if that was the van that Mary had noticed being outside their house.

“We are going to meet Kyle Nelson, CEO of the Nelson pharmaceutical inc., he became such after the ‘suicide’ of his elder brother, five years ago. “ Weland said, and John could hear the air quotes around the word _suicide._ “I’ll skip five years worth of intelligence Samuel and Mycroft’s people have put together, but what stands out is that he had money problems, until suddenly he didn’t –”

 _Dear Jim, you helped me once with my brother, can you help me again?_ John thought with a grimace as they had entered an underground garage, Weland meanwhile parked the van, he looked at him and there was sympathy in his eyes, but his voice was stern when he said, “The thing with owing certain people is that they own you, they may ask you to perfect an already existing toxin that a certain branch of your pharmaceutical enterprise might have developed for, say, C.I.A and turn it into something worse.”

“Did they have it all along?” John asked, recalling Mycroft’s words.

“Of course they did – why, are you surprised?” Weland asked, and he looked genuinely curious.

“Did Mycroft know?” John asked.

“Yes, and believe me, he is not happy about it. But politics is a tricky thing.” Weland explained.

John heard Samuel snorting behind them, and Weland said, “Good thing we happened to be around – and that Nelson is, for all intent and purposes, a moron and cannon fodder for Jim Moriarty.”

“Does he have the antidote?” John asked, wondering why on Earth that man should keep it with him and why was he staying in Sherlock Holmes’s city – after what he had done to him.

He must have talked aloud or maybe Weland had the same deductive skills of his siblings, because he shrugged, “I don’t know, John. But I trust the information we have. If we had more time we could speculate about Jim Moriarty and how he likes to play games with Sherlock. But time is a luxury we don’t have right now.” He got up, and John noticed that Samuel had too, and had handed him an earpiece. John got one too. Samuel had immediately gone back to his laptop.

“Update.” Weland said, while he adjusted the earpiece to his ear.

“Hopkins and Fielding have secured the floor below, we have visual and audio. He has a little party up there.” Samuel said.

“You might want to be more specific, Samuel.” Weland said.

Samuel turned the laptop toward them and John noticed that there was a video feed, the screen was divided into four sections which showed what it looked like a penthouse floor. There were armed guards outside the elevator, two guards in the hallway, two outside a large door behind which they would find Kyle Nelson.

“Is Nelson there?” John asked.

“Oh, yes. He is waiting for instructions. Like the good lap dog he is” Weland said, he was about to add something, John thought, when his mobile rung. He knew it was not true, nevertheless John felt that all the air in the van had been sucked away, replaced by something heavy and acrid when Weland said, “Mycroft.”

He took a few steps back and turned, giving his back to him, and John saw – he saw the man’s shoulders hunch – even if his voice came out even and calm when he said, “I see. How long?” There was a pause, thirty seconds at most, and John felt his heart drumming in his chest, while his hands balled into fists against his sides, then Weland said, “Fine. Of course you can. Yes.” He checked his watch and said, “Thirty minutes? I’ll see you there.”

When the man turned John feared that he would tell him that the retrieval of the antidote was now useless, he feared that it was too late, and the feeling was made stronger by the look on the man’s face – hard and older somehow. When he talked, though, his voice was brisk with efficiency, “It looks like our schedule has just gotten tighter.”

“How is he?” John asked.

“Full body transfusion and dialysis; the kidneys are toast. Liver and pancreas are holding up well for now. We might still save his life if we reverse the effects of the toxin, but he will need a kidney’s transplant.”

John refused to dwell on the implications of what he had just been told, focusing, instead on the antidote. “What’s the plan?” He asked.

“I’ll tell you on the way. We really don’t have much time.” Weland said, he looked at Samuel and said, “Do you remember our last trip to Colombia?” A slow smile spread across the older man’s thin lips,

“How could I ever forget?” He shook his head, still smiling and said, “Hopkins and Fielding are waiting. Do you have everything?”

“No.” Weland said, “But I’m working on it.”

“Such a drama queen...” Samuel said with a sigh, and John couldn’t help saying, “It runs in the family, I can promise you.”

“I gathered as much, yes.” Samuel replied, but he wasn’t looking at him, he was typing on another laptop on the table in front of him. John knew the exchange between Weland and Samuel held a hidden meaning and he couldn’t say that he cared. All he needed now was to retrieve that bloody antidote.

Weland rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, I have everything.” He looked at John and said, “Shall we go?”

 

* * *

 

 

 There wasn’t time for a proper explanation, as John found out; he had questions, of course, he had loads of questions, but he knew they would have to wait. The floor below being secured meant that the cameras were disabled and there were four men unconscious in the otherwise empty offices. Getting into the building had been easy, surprisingly so, Weland had the key card for the floor below Kyle Nelson’s penthouse.

John hadn’t asked how he had got it and the man hadn’t volunteered any information. Weland checked his mobile, sent a text and then took two night goggles from his backpack, handing him one, John accepted it without comments.

“I trust you know how to use these?” Weland asked. John nodded and Weland said, “Good. Watch my back. Shoot to kill.”

“What about – Hopkins and Fielding? Where are they?” John asked.

He had no qualms about killing whoever got in their way to retrieve the antidote, but he’d feel safer knowing that it wasn’t just the two of them. He didn’t exactly trust Weland, even if he was Sherlock’s brother (his mind still couldn’t wrap itself around _that),_ he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling him and he didn’t like the carefully blank look on his face.

“We are on our own for now.” Weland said and John noticed that he was changing gloves. He glimpsed ugly scars covering the back of his hands and a few fingernails lacking on both his hands before he glanced away noticing that Weland had followed his gaze.

“Lights out in ten seconds.” Weland said.

John turned toward him, he was clearly talking to Samuel, but was looking at him. John nodded. He was used to clever break ins with Sherlock, he was used to mad dashes, with only a gun, safely tucked away in the waistband of his jeans and Sherlock’s genius as their main weapons. That was different: it was like being back in the battlefield, with its gestures and silent movements as they took the stairs that connected the empty offices to Nelson’s penthouse.

He shot two men, straight in the chest, they went down with too loud thumps and John saw Weland step over the two bodies without sparing them a glance. He saw him adjusting the night goggles and did the same right before the lights went out. The glass door that connected the two floors was unlocked and Weland did a quick, efficient job of getting rid of the two men there. They were outnumbered, but had a clear advantage thanks to the night goggles and the fact that someone - Samuel, most probably - had tampered with the lights controls.

Weland shot to kill, just like he had told him to do, he didn’t waste bullets, he hit the men either on the chests or on the foreheads, his gun an extension of his arm, as he aimed and shot without stopping walking down the hallway. John watched his back, his senses honed, the familiar hum of adrenaline in his body as he shot his gun, his hand steady, his aim precise as it had always been.

He couldn’t help wondering why Weland had asked him to tag along, since it looked like he could deal with the situation perfectly fine on his own and with Samuel’s instructions through his earpiece, but he let that thought slide, he could not afford any distraction, not there, not when they were so close to the antidote – the cure, whatever it was that could save Sherlock’s life. They stopped at the end of the hallway, Samuel’s voice was low and soothing in his ear when he said, “Once you turn this corner there is a flight of stairs, it leads to Nelson’s office, there are three armed men. You have ten seconds before lights are on again.”

Guns checked and recharged, Weland nodded at him and gestured him to cover the left side and John nodded, taking position. He had no idea about what kind of operatives Weland and Sherlock had been – but his first impression about Weland had been spot on, there was little doubt in his mind about what Weland had done for a living for all these years: he was a killer, whether he was a free lancer or worked for some organization was unclear and John really couldn’t care less. Not at the moment.

He couldn’t shake away the feeling that it was all too easy, especially considering Moriarty’s involvement, yet he shot his gun, took down one of the men in the main hallway, covered Weland’s back, and took off the night goggles when the lights came on.

“What now?” John asked. Weland tilted a finger up and a moment later the door at the end of the hallway opened, and a blonde man in his early forties, dressed in a grey suit and a white shirt, his hands tilted up said in a casual tone, “Gentlemen? Come in.”

What in the bloody hell? He had expected to barge into that room, gun blazing – he hadn’t expected _that._ He hadn’t expected Kyle Nelson (it had to be him – he was American, the tone of his voice had been casual but he had noticed that his hands had been trembling) in person inviting them in. Weland didn’t tuck his gun away and neither did John.

If Weland was surprised by Nelson’s gesture he didn’t show it, he didn’t even seem surprised when two thugs took their guns away the moment they entered the large, windowless, office. The two men were pointing guns at them now and John really preferred the way he had imagined things would go: guns blazing, possibly a few of Nelson’s bones broken and then he would give them the antidote – provided he had it in his office, of course.

“You realize that all this special op thing wasn’t necessary, right?” Nelson said sitting on the edge of his desk, his hands on his thighs. He noticed that he was sweating, a thin film of perspiration covered his forehead, but aside for that he was keeping his calm facade, his voice had been steady when he had talked. Weland cocked an eyebrow at his words but didn’t comment on them.

“I mean – cleaning up this mess will be a bitch, and I was told we had a deal going on here...” Nelson said and John blinked in surprise.

A deal? What kind of deal? He didn’t like the sound of it and he liked it even less when Weland shrugged his shoulders but still didn’t talk, a light smile playing on his lips. John looked around: there was a door on the left side of the room and John could clearly hear the noise of a helicopter landing on the rooftop. He almost wasn’t paying attention to the gun pointed to his head and neither was Weland who, apparently, was satisfied with looking at Kyle Nelson – and right there, for the first time, John saw the resemblance with Sherlock. It wasn’t a physical thing, it was the look in his eyes, the way he was dissecting the man and the room in front of him; ignoring the man pointing the gun at his head, Weland took a step forward, shortening the distance with Nelson, he turned his head on a side when the thug cocked his gun, looking at him, he looked at Nelson and said, “Do you mind?”

For whichever reason, he had talked with no discernible inflection, John noticed that Nelson gestured at the thug to back off, Weland smiled and said, “Make that phone call. Once I get the word you can have the package.”

John was used to being kept in the dark by the Holmes’ brothers. It was nothing new – but he had a feeling that things were about to get extremely messy. He could almost hear Sherlock saying ‘Vatican cameos’, he was ready. Part of him, though, didn’t like the tone of Weland’s voice. He didn’t like that he was dealing with Kyle Nelson, supposedly on Mycroft’s behalf.

Nelson made his phone call, he whispered a few words and hung up, keeping the mobile phone in his hands, sweating and trying to hide the fear that was clear in his blue eyes. Kyle Nelson, as Weland had said in the van, was a moron – but a scared moron was dangerous, especially one who looked like he had been appointed as Moriarty’s errand boy.

Weland, unlike Nelson, looked calm, almost as if there wasn’t a gun pointed at him and his brother’s life wasn’t in danger. Yes – he was definitely a Holmes.

“I’m sure it won’t take long for your people to analyze a sample. It’s the real thing, I can promise you.” Nelson said breaking the silence in the room. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but in that room. If it weren’t that he had provided Moriarty with the toxin that was killing Sherlock, John would almost pity him. He definitely wasn’t cut for that kind of life.

“My boss is thorough.” Weland said, the tone of his voice carefully blank.

John couldn’t hear Samuel through his earpiece, he wondered whether there was something in the room that blocked the signal or if the man was indeed not saying a word. It was impossible to tell looking at Weland, who kept his gloved hands at his sides and wasn’t moving a muscle. John let out a breath when, after what it felt like hours (but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes), Weland’s mobile rung; the man answered the phone, the tone of his voice casual and John wondered for maybe the millionth time how was it possible that Sherlock’s parents, who looked completely ordinary, sweet and the perfect picture of familial harmony in any way, could have generated those three men.

John noticed that the two thugs had slightly shifted position and Kyle Nelson let out a breath when Weland, after a moment of silence said, “Yes, sir.” He disconnected the call and said, “It looks like your boss kept his part of the bargain, Mr. Nelson.”

“Told you. He wants to keep going.” Nelson said, and he didn’t look scared now. He looked definitely calmer.

“Did you see him?” John asked.

He hadn’t said a word ever since they had entered the office, and for the first time he caught surprise in Weland’s eyes when he talked – and a flash of something else, something he couldn’t identify: annoyance? Worry? Exasperation? He wasn’t sure and he didn’t really care. He needed to know whether it was really Moriarty, whether Weland had been right and the proof Sherlock had found in Dublin was fabricated.

He had heard Moriarty’s message, but it didn’t mean anything, not really.

“Who?” Nelson asked.

“Jim Moriarty” John said.

Nelson’s hands twitched but he grinned, “Oh, yeah – he’s been working on this for a while. Nothing personal, Mr. Watson. Believe me. Speaking of which –”

The thug’s sudden held on him was surprising. The man was huge, taller than Weland, built like a bloody brick wall, and his hold around his neck could become problematic if he didn’t let him go soon.

“Yes, John. Sorry about that –” Weland said, _“you_ are the package.”

Nelson took another breath, God, that man was pathetic – and John could kick himself for being so bloody stupid! He closed his eyes, for a moment; breathing was becoming a problem and considering he still had a gun pointed at his head moving was a bad idea.

“Sherlock –” John started.

“Your buddy will spend the next few months in a hospital bed; he won’t be able to do _squat_ except drink from straws, wear adult diapers and try and avoid bedsores!” Nelson said interrupting him, and he was gloating now, he looked in control. And why wouldn’t he? He was going to bring him to Moriarty after all.

John clenched his jaws, but didn’t talk, he looked at Weland, if Nelson’s words had any effects on him he was very good at hiding it, in fact, except for a minute twitch of his right hand his whole body was the picture perfect of calm and detachment. There was still silence from his earpiece and John was not afraid, not exactly. Mycroft had the cure for Sherlock and the relief overpowered anything else. He wasn’t even afraid of Moriarty, he supposed that would come later, when he faced the man and he would be used to play games with Sherlock.

Weland, who had avoided looking at him until that moment said, “I’m really sorry, John.”

John shook his head, he could feel a smile on his own lips, the kind of smile that usually numbed him to the bone, who appeared only when he was so furious that he could not move a single muscle.

“Shove it.” John hissed. He truly should have known better than that!

“Very well.” Nelson said, moving from the spot he had occupied at the edge of the desk, “We should be going. Guys? Bring along our guests.”

“That was not part of the deal.” Weland said, but he didn’t sound particularly alarmed, just mildly curious and not particularly surprised when the other thug cocked the gun and pointed it directly at back of his head.

“Neither was killing ten of my men when you came here, but what can you do?” Nelson said, “I want to make sure you and your boss don’t try anything funny!”

The long suffering sigh Weland let out was so typically Holmesian that John was almost tempted to smile at that. His own thug had mercifully lessened the hold on his neck and was satisfied with holding the gun at his temple.

“Mr Nelson, should I try anything _funny,_ you’d be the first one to notice, rest assured!” Weland said with a smile.

There was a moment of silence in the room, then Weland said, “Oh, you know what? Fuck it!”

It all happened _very_ quickly: the thug holding him pushed him to the pavement and shot, point blank, the one holding Weland, who fell to the floor with a loud thump. A perfect shot with a target not completely acquired. John was impressed!

Weland, on his part, grabbed Kyle Nelson’s wrist and pushed him to his knees, letting him go immediately after. Nelson wheezed, but didn't, otherwise, move.

“What the fuck happened to the signal?” His thug asked, speaking for the first time since they had entered the room. He had an American accent but the despite the tone of his voice he was smiling. John noticed that Nelson’s lips had turned into an interesting shade of blue and had visibly paled, Weland was crouching next to him.

“Yes, I know, we were supposed to go up to the rooftop, but we’d have been too exposed.” Weland said with a wave of his hand.

 _Right._ John thought, Moriarty loved snipers and Nelson – who looked like he was still having troubles breathing – wasn’t a complete moron after all: his office was windowless. Granted, if Moriarty wanted him dead he would blow the whole place up, but at least they were safe from snipers.

“Last I checked, _fuck it_ is not a signal, man!” His thug said, still keeping him on the floor with a foot on his back.

Weland ignored him and tilted Nelson’s head up grabbing him by the hair, “Now you listen to me, asshole: I’m tempted to pack you up and send you back to dear Jim, knowing he’ll just love to hear how you fucked this up. Or I'm sure C.I.A and Homeland security would be having a field day with you. But I think Mycroft Holmes will be happy to hear your side of the story when the tetrodoxine effect wears off and then decide what to do with you!"

He let go of Nelson's hair and got up; John was blinking, relief and confusion making him almost dizzy.

"Hopkins, do you mind?" Weland said and a moment after the man helped John to his feet, looking slightly apologetic.

"Fielding?" Weland asked, taking his gun from the dead thug on the pavement.

"Rooftop, the douche sent him there to check the perimeter." Hopkins said with a smirk.

John was confused, and it had to show on his face, because Weland said, "I'll tell you while we go back to the van, it's kind of a funny story actually - we need to move Nelson, though."

"Scene is clear, Fielding will deal with the clean-up, gentlemen you _really_ need to go now." Samuel's voice was incredibly loud in John's ear; he had almost forgotten about the earpiece, he exchanged a look with Weland, stifled the urge to punch him in the face and wordlessly went to help him carry Kyle Nelson, while Hopkins walked ahead of them.

"You could have told me." John said.

Kyle Nelson was a dead weight and John thought that he should be focusing on carrying the man out of the building, look around and make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises, but he was too pissed to care.

“Men like Kyle Nelson hire a specific kind of protection detail.” Weland said, “I just happen to know a lot of them. Hopkins, Fielding and I –”

“That’s not what I meant.” John said interrupting him.

Weland grimaced, adjusting Nelson, who was drooling, but was very much awake, against his side and said, “I know.”

John shook his head; they walked in silence and John chose to ignore the bodies on the pavement, not even flinching when Hopkins, his friendly thug, fired his gun, finishing one of the men in the hallway.

"Are we sure the antidote works?" He asked a few seconds later when they entered the elevator.

Weland gestured Hopkins and they traded places with holding Nelson up, the burly man looked at him and said, "You can let go, Mr. Watson - "

Weland seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking warily at Hopkins, before saying, "I don't know, John." He grinned, “I was just paid to retrieve a package.”

Right, John thought. Weland, perhaps, didn’t want his associate (friend? Colleague?) to know about his personal involvement in that assignment. He was furious, he wanted answers, but nodded at the man; Weland cocked his gun, signalling that way that the conversation was over, and said, "Samuel? Ready when you are!"

Hopkins pushed him behind him, with his free hand, effectively shielding John with his body a moment before the elevator's doors opened to the underground parking lot. The van was waiting for them a few feet away, they moved quickly, John between Hopkins (who was carrying Nelson as if he weighed nothing) and Weland, who ushered him inside, before getting in as well and immediately going to the wheel. John noticed that Hopkins and Samuel were securing Nelson; Samuel injected the blonde man with something.

They got out from the underground parking and John was half expecting them to be followed, to be intercepted by Moriarty’s people – he was surely aware, by now, of how things had gone.

“Are we being followed?” John asked.

“Nope. Fielding will buy us some time.” Weland replied.

“You owe us. Big time.” Hopkins mumbled, but there wasn’t any real heat behind his words. Yet Weland said, “I know. I’d suggest to lay low for a while.”

Hopkins nodded, “ Jim Moriarty? Really, Evans? How the fuck did you get involved in this crap? Weren’t you retired?” The man, who was sitting next to John, shook his head and said, “You know what? The less I know the better.”

“Wise man...” Weland said.

John wasn’t really following the exchange between the two men, he was looking at the road, he knew they were going to the hospital facility were Sherlock was. The fact that neither of their mobile phones had rung had to be a good sign. It had to be. He sat on the passenger seat and said, “Why didn’t you tell me? You used me as bait.”

Weland sighed, “John – ” He looked at him for a moment before he said, “I really am sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry, he sounded like he didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Nelson’s office at all. He sounded like he felt: tired and worried, running on too little sleep and too much adrenaline. John closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them when Weland said in a low voice, “You didn’t put up much of a fight.”

John noticed that he was looking at Hopkins and Samuel through the rear-view mirror and specified, “In the office.”

“It was sort of pointless, with a gun pointed at my head.” John said, but Weland regaled him with a look, so similar to the ones Sherlock gave to particularly rubbish liars that John had to blink, for a moment.

“Right.” Weland said, “A novel and terrifying experience for you. I understand that. It’s not like you were a trained soldier or anything.”

“What does it matter anyway? It was a bluff.” John said.

Weland didn’t reply, didn’t comment on his words, and John cleared his throat and asked, “It wasn’t a bluff, was it?”

Another look at the rear-view mirror, and John could see that Samuel and Hopkins were having a whispered conversation at the small table where Samuel’s laptops were.

“You don’t seem surprised.” Weland said, and John shook his head. No, he wasn’t surprised. He thought that nothing about Mycroft Holmes would really shock him at that point; the fact that he was willing to sacrifice him to save Sherlock was hardly shocking.

“John.” Weland said, “Mycroft is –”

“A git. And the most dangerous man I’ll ever meet.” John said, he was grinning, “Sherlock’s words, not mine.”

Weland shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips, “Always so melodramatic. Anyway, he did keep his end of the bargain. Not his fault you can’t trust freelancers these days.”

“Did you defy Mycroft’s orders?” John asked, ignoring what, for some reason, it felt like a jab at Mary.

“I did not. He asked me to bring you there, he never said anything about not taking initiatives.” He grinned at him and said, “The devil is in the details and I suppose that since he asked me to deal with the exchange, he expected something along these lines.”

“I was fine with it.” John said after a moment, “Provided that the antidote worked, I would have been fine.”

Weland shook his head and John thought he wanted to say something, he even opened his mouth to talk, deciding at the last second against it. He drove in silence for a while, John relaxed against the seat, they stopped once, when Hopkins got out, smirking at Weland’s words about laying low and disappeared into another van, driven by what he assumed was the mysterious Fielding.

“Ever thought that a healthy shag would be a valid alternative to self sacrifice?” Weland asked in a casual tone. He didn’t let him answer, though, they had arrived, John recognized the entrance of the base.

“What happens now?” John asked.

“Family reunion, I guess.” Weland said with a shrug.


End file.
